Cataclysm
by kitsunerei88
Summary: [Sequel to Vanguard] Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen. What began as revolution becomes a war, and wars are never easy – not least because of the enemy.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: As it says on the box, everyone. If you didn't follow Vanguard, you won't follow this, so go back to my profile and start from the beginning!_

XXX

Hannah had never liked the Hogwarts Express. It was horrendously loud, for one, the clackety-clack of the wheels running on rails was absolutely deafening to her sensitive ears, and she could not forget that it was the thing that took her away from her family for nine months of the year. The compartments were too small, the seats not built for a girl of Hannah's size, and it wasn't as though she could curl up on a cushion in her rabbit form.

Most years, that was. She and Blaise had managed to get a private compartment this time, which meant that she could, and she did, spend most of the journey in her rabbit form, curled up in his lap while he stroked her in just the way she liked, from the base of her neck to her cottonball tail. He was warm, and he felt safe to her, soothing even as she flicked her ears, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary.

There were Aurors on the train, one for every three to four compartments. She heard steps tromping up and down the main aisle, a regular beat of the Aurors interspersed with excited students running up and down the corridor. Voices came through, plenty of innocuous conversation about summer plans, but quite a lot of nervous chatter, too. The Aurors, when they met, exchanged brief comments to each other, a million small details that let her put together an impression of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Dawlish was still in charge, much to the displeasure of some half of the Aurors. A lot of the younger Aurors had left or been summarily dismissed. The previous Head, Lord Potter, had accepted a higher than normal ratio of homeschooled halfbloods into Auror training, most of whom were now gone. They weren't being replaced, which meant that there was more work for everyone, even without satisfying requests like guarding the Hogwarts Express. Auror salaries had been frozen, and the extra support that they had been getting, in the form of clerks transferred from other areas of the Ministry, was more a hindrance than a help. The Aurors were tired, overworked, frustrated, and frequently annoyed by the unreasonable demands being put on them. She heard three comment that they would have left themselves, were it not for their families.

Susan Bones, Megan Jones, and Millicent Bulstrode were sitting in the compartment behind her. They were talking quietly, but not quietly enough to escape Hannah's sharp hearing. They were all involved with _Bridge_: Susan provided legal analysis through her Aunt Amelia Bones, Megan distributed copies of the newspaper around school, and Millie passed on information from the British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards. Millie planned on joining her uncle in Geneva shortly after getting home, under the pretense of a summer internship, but she was also going to explore the idea of a backchannel with MACUSA, Wizarding Canada, and several other wizarding nations. They shouldn't be talking about it here, but Hannah didn't think that they would be overheard by anyone except her, so she resolved to simply mention it to Rosier, or Blake, or whatever he was calling himself nowadays.

Hannah didn't like Rosier. He was sharp, and he was cruel, and he had forced Blaise, her _mate_, into an extreme loyalty oath, putting Hannah's life in the line. Nothing would ever make Hannah like Rosier, not after that. Rosier hadn't even tried to see if Blaise was sympathetic to his cause or not, to consider something like _trust, _before pushing him into it.

Neither had Hannah, before jinxing him. But Hannah had jinxed him to keep him out of it, to keep him safe and out of the budding war. Memory Charms were safe, and what Blaise was doing now, passing information from within the SOW Party, was anything but safe.

Blaise thought the risk was worth it. He thought _Hannah_ was worth it. He had no intention of betraying Rosier, so from his perspective, taking the oath had let him deepen his relationship with her into something that was real. Even Hannah had to admit that he was right; the pull between them would always be there, but there was something else there now, too. Her soulmate bond wasn't only a noose around her neck, but a tenuous connection holding them together.

In some ways, that was worse. Blaise still wasn't Alliance, nor had he ever mentioned putting his candidacy forward, and Hannah would never leave the Alliance. So maybe Blaise's decision would just bring both of them more pain in the end. She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably at the thought, hearing Blaise murmur soothing nonsense at her while he smoothed down her ruffled fur.

They pulled into King's Cross Station late in the afternoon. There was the usual crowd waiting for the train, but even here the atmosphere of hard tension prevailed. Parents searched for their children quickly, pulling them out of the station with wary looks at their neighbours. There was none of the festivity of past years, with very little dawdling to say hello to old friends, or to meet their children's new friends. Hannah followed the crowds, giving Blaise a hurried kiss goodbye before slipping away. Blaise would make sure her luggage got to her little sister or brother, or her cousin, who would drop it off at home for her. She had business, and she dashed off to meet Rosier at a café around the corner.

Rosier was sitting at a back table when she arrived, two steaming mugs in front of him. It was too loud in the busy café, with a crowd of people in front of the counter ordering coffees so fancy that Hannah didn't understand what they involved anymore. Macchiatos, flat whites, cortados – Blaise could have told her what they were, and would have loved to do it, but Hannah didn't like coffee enough to care. Instead, she shouldered her way to the back of the café, apologizing every few steps and hoping she wasn't too out of place in her old-fashioned skirt and blouse.

"Hannah," Rosier greeted her as she slid into the seat across from him. He pushed a plain mug of tea over to her. "How was your journey?"

He looked anxious, worried, not that it made Hannah like him any better.

"Quiet," Hannah said reluctantly, accepting the mug and taking a few sips. "Unusually – unusually quiet. We had an Auror security detail. But – but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is in shambles, understaffed. The front-line Aurors are upset."

Rosier listened to her stumble through her report with a tight, focused sort of expression. His mouth was a thin, grim line, even as he periodically sipped the coffee in front of him in thought. Her report was a short one, covering only the attitude of the students at school, as well as the Aurors on the train, but Rosier took his time to mull over it. Hannah ignored her tea, steaming in front of her, watching him with a hint of suspicion.

"I don't like it," Rosier muttered finally, with a deep sigh. He looked up, his hawk-like eyes fixing on her, and Hannah suppressed a shudder of combined fear and distaste. "Hannah, my reports from Voldemort's camp suggests that they have something planned for early June, but my spy there isn't highly enough placed to find any details for me. I realize this is a lot, but would you be able to ask the Alliance to send some of their best and least conspicuous spies to Lestrange Manor?"

Hannah blinked – it was rare for Rosier to ask anything of her, or of the Alliance. Normally they collected information and provided it, and he would nod, thoughtful, thank them, and ask if there was anything else before disappearing. She hesitated, but if Rosier had asked, and provided information about it, then it was probably important.

"I – I will ask," Hannah replied, but she didn't have any real doubt that the Alliance would agree. War made for strange bedfellows, or so they said, and they had already lost four in the Unity Ball attack. Five, with David Goldfarb. Five was too many. "I will let you know."

The Warren, the organizational headquarters of the Alliance and her family home, was always busy. There were always siblings, a few cousins, other allies living in the softly lit, warm, half-underground commune. When she arrived, Flooing into the den, she was assaulted with screaming.

"You _cheated!" _Her cousin Kathleen was shouting, red-faced, a mess of Exploding Snap cards smoking on the table. A quick look showed that she was surrounded by another cousin and three of Hannah's siblings, and that her brother, Stephen, had a too-innocent look on his face. "You're a lying cheating cheater and—"

"I did _not!" _Stephen yelled back, though the twitch of a smile on his face told a whole other story. "You set it off when you put the last card up, we all saw it!"

"Cool it!" Her cousin Lucie cut in, brown hair flying as she flicked her wand, and a noise like the blaring of a foghorn. Everyone, including Hannah, flinched, and she covered her ears. "Oh, sorry about that, Hannah. Good to see you. How have things been?"

"Hannah!"

A blurred shape threw himself at her, and Hannah grinned at her family members as she caught him – her youngest brother, Luke, only three. "I'm glad to see you too, buddy. I'm good, Luce. Do you know where my dad is?"

Lucie looked up, tilting her head a little, a bit spaniel-like even in her human form. "Dining room, I think. No time to catch up with us, tonight?"

"Business," Hannah explained, setting her younger brother down and pushing him gently to Lucie. "S-sorry. I'll catch up later with you, I promise. I want to hear all about your Mastery program."

Lucie made a face. "My Mastery program is a flaming disaster, that's what it is," she said, waving Hannah off. "Business is business – go. We'll catch up later."

The dining room was on the lower level, underground, and her father was there, nose twitching periodically over a stack of parchment reports. Her father looked nothing like her, a thin man with tanned skin and a narrow nose, but her inner rabbit still sang at the sight of him. Armand Abbott was _family, _and she went to him and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Hi, Dad," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "How have things been?"

Her father made a small noise of worried discontent. "Not well, Hannah. Have you any good news for us?"

Hannah sighed, taking a seat beside her father, eyeing the worn lines underneath his eyes that hadn't been there over winter break. He was a writer at the _Daily Prophet_, but he had been off work, unpaid, since the offices burned down. Hannah would have worried, but the Alliance had a reserve fund for exactly this situation. Every Alliance member paid into the reserve fund, and they could all draw from it in times of need.

"Not – not really. I reported to Rosier on my way home." She hesitated a bit, then she sighed, turning away from her father to look at the earthen wall across the table. "He had a request for us."

"Oh?"

"He wants us to set up surveillance on Lestrange Manor. Some – something is supposed to be planned for early June, so it's urgent." She looked back at her father, her lips thinning.

Her father's nose twitched, but he radiated a steady calm, one that stood him in good stead as the Speaker of the Alliance – not the head, because the Alliance operated by consensus, but as the central moderator and the keeper of the bylaws. Armand Abbott might only be a minor reporter for the _Daily Prophet_, but he was the centre of the Alliance. "Are you volunteering, Hannah?"

Hannah nodded, grim. No one gave orders in the Alliance – all tasks were done on a volunteer-only basis, so while Rosier might have asked for the best and least conspicuous spies, he would only ever get the ones who volunteered for the duty. She would try for the best ones, but it was up to them to decide whether they wanted to take the risk. "I'll also speak to… Christian, Jules, and Mark, to see if they'll volunteer."

Her father nodded, putting one arm on her shoulder. "Good choices. Speak to Trevor and Noah as well. They – they have been restless, recently. No heroics, Hannah – reconnaissance _only_, all right?"

Hannah nodded her understanding, then went to find her cousins and friends.

It took them an hour over dinner to hash out a rough plan. None of them were familiar with Lestrange Manor – it wasn't a place where any of them had ever had business being, so they only had the vaguest impressions collected over six people to guide them. Lestrange Manor was one of the oldest noble houses, which mean the grounds would be in some ways alive, a layer of security beyond the wards that they would need to consider.

"Mark, Jules, Hannah, Noah, you can get the closest to the building itself," Christian said, chewing his sandwich thoughtfully. He was Alliance, though not directly related to Hannah, and his shifter form was a wolf. As the runt of the litter, however, Christian was small for a wolf shifter, and Hannah liked having him for reconnaissance missions because his nose was as sharp as her hearing. "Trevor and I will have to hang back – wards don't take well to predators, even small ones, but we can look at the wards and run a circle of the estate."

"A circle of the Lestrange estate might take you days." Noah snorted. A sparrow shifter, he was a recent Hogwarts graduate and worked at Flourish and Blotts stocking shelves. "You know how old manors are. We don't have a map of the area, and we have no idea about cover. We need to make this a scouting run – we'll map out what we can tonight, then work out a better plan. It's going to take us days to even set up preliminary surveillance."

"I agree with Noah. We stick together," Hannah said, decisive over her salad. "We stay in – in view of each other the entire time, standard signal cues. If – if one of us calls a retreat, we all retreat, no questions asked."

Her cousin Julia nodded over her own salad. She worked for the Ministry as a clerk in the Apparition licensing department, and there was no one better at deconstructing Apparition coordinates or reading Apparition residue. "Yeah. This isn't a time for risks. We don't have to see all of the others at any given time, but make sure you can see at least _one_ of us, and we'll pass the signals down the line when we see them. We can make a better plan for tomorrow, when we know where we're landing."

Lestrange Manor was quiet. The Apparition point that Julia took them to was covered with shade, near a low-lying wall some hundred and fifty feet away from the manor itself, and they took animal form as quickly as they could and slunk off into the undergrowth. They were closer to the manor than expected, which Hannah did not like, but having seen the area, they could scout another Apparition point farther away for future surveillance.

The building was old, almost gothic in design, but a sort of gothic that rubbed poorly against Hannah's senses. It felt wrong, though she couldn't have explained why. The magic of the wards buzzed against her thin summer fur, uncomfortable, but there was something about the building, too. It felt unbalanced, with tall circular spires spiking to the heavens and stern, blocky lines forming the rest of the monstrous building. It didn't look like a home, and it wasn't lit or maintained like a home, either.

They had only managed to map out the area in front of the house, strategic bushes and fountains and trees, before Hannah heard a warning chitter from Mark, a squirrel shifter, in the trees above her. She froze, one paw raised, her rabbit symbol for a halt, before she heard a hustle of activity on the grounds.

Dozens of witches and wizards, all dressed in black, grey masks dangling off their belts or in their hands, were pouring out of Lestrange Manor. Many of them looked grim, but there was a laughing witch in the centre of one cluster, radiating vicious, anticipatory pleasure. Hannah shuddered, recognizing Lady Lestrange. On the other side of the group, she spotted the Lestrange Heir looking bored. She knew little about the Lestranges, but what she had heard wasn't good. They had formally been charged with sedition and terrorism, not that it mattered when they had escaped Azkaban Prison.

The witches and wizards milled about in front of the doors, and it was another fifteen minutes before another man appeared. The young man from the Triwizard Tournament, the one at the Unity Ball, and Hannah shrank back further in her cluster of bushes. Even from here, she could feel his power, sharp and spiky and unnatural against her senses. He was speaking, giving orders or a speech of some kind, but she was too far away to catch more than a few words. Something about Lord Riddle, something about the SOW Party, and something about the Ministry. The witches and wizards divided themselves into two groups, with the Lestrange Heir and another wizard, one with a hard look on his face, in charge of one, while Voldemort went to the other.

The Lestrange Heir's group Disapparated, the cracks loud enough to come to her hearing, more than a hundred and fifty feet away. Another ten minutes, and Voldemort's group, too, Disapparated. Hannah withdrew, flicking her ears three times, and she knew that the others were retreating with her; they needed to discuss and reorganize, and everyone with her tonight was experienced enough to follow.

"Two – two different Apparition signatures," her cousin Julie whispered, as soon as she reappeared from her rabbit form, well under cover in an empty clearing of trees. "One is for the – the Ministry of Magic, the other I don't recognize, somewhere in Wiltshire. Vol-Voldemort went to the one I don't recognize. We can follow, but we should give them a bit of time to get away from the Apparition point before we get there. We don't want to land on their heads."

"Be a dumb way to die," Christian added, shaking his head with a small snort. "Those were strike forces, Hannah, almost fifty witches and wizards. Twenty disappeared with the first group, the rest with the second. They're attacking something. I don't like this."

"I don't – don't think anyone does," Hannah replied, looking round her small group and making a snap decision. "Jules, Mark, can you go to the Ministry? _Don't – _don't do anything stupid. Don't fight, if there's fighting. Just wait, listen, and return to the Warren before midnight. Trevor, Noah, stay here, wait, listen, and return at midnight. Christian and I will take the unknown location."

There was a short pause, as they all exchanged dissatisfied looks, but Hannah shrugged, gesturing for someone to make a better plan than the one she had. They needed information, and they didn't have any, and none of them were stupid. None of them would be doing anything to put themselves in harm's way, with any luck. This was only reconnaissance.

"Fine," Mark said, abrupt. "It's been about fifteen minutes since they left – we give them another fifteen, and then we go."

Fifteen minutes seemed to last an eternity. Christian Apparated her into a small copse of trees, thankfully empty, though she shifted almost as soon as her feet touched the ground, just in case. Christian was already in wolf form when she looked over at him, his nose to the ground, then he flicked his tail in a gesture for her to follow.

She couldn't smell as well as he could, but she kept her ears open. Every rustle of trees sounded like danger, and her fur was standing up on its end. She slipped after Christian, hopping between bushes and, when not completely hidden, acting as rabbit-like as she possibly could, until he paused, crouching under some bushes, his belly almost rubbing against the floor of the woods.

Hannah came forward silently, catching sight of the building, and her breath caught. It was Malfoy Manor – not that she had ever been there, but Lord Riddle had given enough speeches from the elegant front steps to the mansion, which fanned out in a circle from the front doors. She knew it, and she also heard the sounds of many bumbling humans in front of her, between her and the mansion.

Voldemort's followers.

She exchanged a glance with Christian, twitching one of her ears. There was one of Voldemort's followers only about fifteen feet away from them, but only one of them. They had fanned out, somewhere. She drew a line with her paw, pointing towards him. Christian bared his teeth at her, unhappy but accepting, and slunk off to search for the others.

It was better that he search for Voldemort's followers than her. Christian had some minor defensive capabilities, not the least his sharp teeth, that Hannah didn't have. As a rabbit, however, Hannah could get a lot closer to the building than he could without being remarkable.

She slipped closer to Malfoy Manor, feeling the tingle of the outer wards against her fur but ignoring them. Most witches and wizards found it annoying to deal with alarms caused by harmless wildlife, so she could normally slip a little closer than most without tripping an alarm. The inner wards closer to the building would be stronger and pick up her nature as a shifter witch in rabbit form, but she didn't need to trigger those for her purposes. She only wanted to know what was happening at Malfoy Manor to draw Voldemort's attention.

Malfoy Manor was a massive, beautiful, white-washed mansion, and she drew closer to the lit rooms. There were huge bay windows, their light spilling out on the grounds, and Hannah clung close to the shadows near a fountain, catching glimpses of the witches and wizards within when they passed by the wide windows. Some of the windows were open, framed on the inside with elegant green curtains which rustled in the light summer breeze.

The Lord Riddle was there, chatting with a tall, stern wizard that she recognized as the Lord Parkinson in one window. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were standing together in front of another window, having a conversation with Edmund Rookwood and Alesana Selwyn, whom she recognized from school. She vaguely remembered hearing that they had married, some time ago. Lady Zabini walked by, crossing from one window frame to another on the arm of a handsome wizard that Hannah didn't recognize, and there were more shapes in the background. She heard the chatter of voices, though nothing specific, friendly voices mingling in the air. A party of some kind, maybe to celebrate the end of the school year and to welcome their Heirs home? Hannah didn't know.

Then Blaise was there, joining the circle with Malfoy and Parkinson, his friends, and Hannah breathed out a slow, calming breath, fighting her internal panic at seeing him. She was a rabbit. She was a bloody rabbit, and rabbits did not care about random humans talking to other humans. Rabbits did not run towards their mates, not even if there was a strike force of Voldemort's followers around or near the mansion. She was on a reconnaissance mission _only_, and she was a _rabbit_, and she would not interfere.

There were wards, she reminded herself sternly, even as she quaked against the fountain. She might have been able to bypass the outer wards, but Voldemort's men were humans, and wizards, and they would trigger them. Malfoy Manor had wards for this, and her job was to wait, watch, and listen.

But she heard the rustle of grass nearby, and her heart nearly stopped as she spotted one of Voldemort's men creeping closer to the building. That was past the outer wards, and unknown wizards not in prey shifter form were something that certainly every Lord warded against, and no one in Malfoy Manor seemed to be acting any different. Not even the Lord Malfoy, who had now joined Lord Riddle in conversation, seemed to have noticed anything.

No. They had something to bypass the wards, or they had broken them, or she didn't know. Hannah wasn't good at things like ward construction or ward breaking, so she didn't know how it had happened, she just knew that if one of Voldemort's men was slinking within the grounds, that meant they probably all were, and that meant _bad things._

And Blaise was inside. Her _mate_ was inside.

It was a split-second decision, but Hannah couldn't leave him there. Not if Voldemort's men were on the grounds, not if there were enough of them for an attack. Christian would _freak_, but Blaise was her _mate_. He had to get out. They both had to get out, _now_.

Her eyes skimmed the walls, looking for an entry point. An open window, a gap, she didn't know, but she spotted a likely-looking window down the wall from Blaise. The window was dimly lit, but there weren't any shadows of people in it, so she bolted towards it, lunging for the windowsill. The inner wards had to be down by now, because she could see a few creeping figures inching closer to the building, and she had no _time_. She needed to get Blaise _out_.

She just made the window, scrabbling her way inside, and she didn't care who saw. Whatever was happening was bigger than one oddly behaved rabbit. The inside was loud, full of polite remarks and twittering, pleased laughter, and Hannah didn't hesitate as she dove for the closest set of elegant green curtains. Her view of the room was terrible, low to the ground as she was – all she saw were boots, most of them shiny and new and fashionable. She mentally cursed everyone who had ever thought that fashion was sensible, because it made everyone's feet look the same, and then she bolted for a space under a chaise. She didn't have time to care about risks – this was an emergency, and she needed to act as quickly as possible, her heart beating a frantic rhythm in her chest.

Blaise's voice was near. She shut her eyes, listening for him. Twenty-five feet to her right, and she opened an eye to look for the next hiding spot she could go for. There was a side table, then more curtains, and she waited, heart pounding, for each silent opportunity. Twenty-two feet away. Eighteen feet away. Fifteen feet. One huge sprint, from one curtain to another, ten feet away, then a daring hide in the skirts of a stationary, laughing witch for a moment before diving under another set of curtains.

She was taking too long. It was too long, and her ears were open for the sound of Blaise's voice, breaking glass, spell-fire. Every minute felt like her heart would explode, and it was sheer luck and daring and the fastest running she had ever done in rabbit form that she hadn't been noticed before she reached his boots, his calm rumble of a voice soothing her almost despite herself. He was her _mate_, her instincts screamed, and she was safe with her _mate_, even as her head grappled with the danger they were in.

She didn't have teeth, and her claws weren't very sharp, but she patted him insistently on the leg from under his robes. Thank goodness for long robes. Thank heaven and cake and sugar cookies that Wizarding Britain's dominant style was still floor-length robes, because she could hide in them in her rabbit form. She felt him freeze, even as he kept talking, his voice smooth and even and perfectly calm, then she heard him excuse himself.

She hopped, trying to time her steps perfectly with his stride, but was only successful at getting herself kicked twice before they made it to an empty hallway and Blaise swept down to pick her up with one arm, quickly moving to an empty room where Hannah could change back. He knew her, of course he did – they would always know each other, because they were mates.

"Hannah, what are you doing here?" His face was pale, his eyes wide, and inside Hannah knew he was panicking as much as her. She changed back, and she knew that her face was equally pale.

"We have – have to get out." Her words were fast, tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out, and she wished, for the umpteenth time, that she didn't stutter. She headed straight for the window, finding the catch with one shaking hand and struggling to get it open. "Vol-Voldemort's here. Outside. Strike – strike force, past the wards. We need to go."

Blaise's hand covered hers, his hand making quick work of the lock on the window and pushing it open. To his credit, he was following her directions, though Hannah could feel that he was upset with her, he was angry that she had put herself in danger like this, and he would have words with her later. She didn't care, and he knew that she didn't care, and she would pay that price to get him _out. _Behind them, she could hear behind her the sounds she had been dreading since her hare-brained mission into Malfoy Manor: breaking glass, spell-fire, and screaming, and she saw Blaise turn, a worried look coming over his face.

She grabbed his arm, shaking her head firmly, and she plunged out the window. In human form, she had a stone on Blaise at least, and they were in mid-air when she shifted, feeling Blaise shifting to his Italian black wolf beside her. Her ears were ringing with the sound of battle, and she streaked off into the night. Blaise would follow her, and she knew it.

The only thing that was important now was getting away, getting back to the Warren and meeting with the rest of her crew, and she ran, heedless, ignoring bushes and trees and all cover. Blaise would have to come with her, and she would deal with the fallout as it happened. He was her _mate, _and he was shifter, and something major was happening tonight. The Alliance could provide cover to Blaise tonight, even if he wasn't one of their own.

Christian ran into them, panting heavily, a hundred yards out from Malfoy Manor. He barely growled at Blaise, following Hannah as she streaked away, another four hundred yards over a hill, in a mess of trees and bushes and long, uncut grass that couldn't have been cared for by anyone. Once there, she shifted again, back to her human form, gasping for air.

"What was that, Hannah?" Christian hissed at her, furious as he reappeared, glaring at Blaise as Blaise also turned back into his human form. "This was a reconnaissance mission, not anything else, what were you even thinking?! I almost died when you went into that window! There were thirty of them, including Voldemort himself. He's young, but he _stinks_ of power, and not the good kind, Hannah! Old blood and iron on him, absolutely filthy."

"My mate," Hannah coughed, wheezing, bent over for air. She wasn't a stranger to running, especially in her rabbit form, but five hundred yards was a lot for her. "I had to get my mate. I couldn't – couldn't let him stay there when it was going to be attacked."

Christian blew out a breath, eyeing Blaise cautiously, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Zabini, eh? Not Alliance."

"You can't choose your mate, Christian, and you – you know it," Hannah choked out, then she gagged. She felt Blaise's hand on her back, rubbing in a soothing motion, and she took a few more breaths and gagged once more before straightening. "Tonight, it doesn't matter whether he's Alliance or not. We bring him back with us – I saw Lord Riddle, Lord Malfoy, Lord Parkinson, and a dozen of the most high-ranking SOW Party Lords in that manor tonight."

"It's a coup, or an attempted one," Blaise added, and his voice was heavy with realization. "There was a meeting tonight. We need to go. Report it to the Ministry, get Auror support."

"We c-can't." Hannah shook her head. "Vol-Voldemort has a second force holding down the Ministry, twenty witches and wizards. We tracked him from Lestrange Manor. We – we have two trackers there, for recon. We need to go back to the Warren and wait."

"You want to bring him to the _Warren?_" Christian asked, his dark eyes widening. "Hannah, he's not Alliance!"

"I'll – I'll deal with it," Hannah snapped, her voice final. "We go to the Warren, and we fortify. We'll – we'll see what the others have to say when they return, and we'll report to _Bridge_ as soon as we can."

Christian shook his head, but he offered both of his arms for Side-Along Apparition anyway. "All right, Hannah. To the Warren, and on your head be it."

XXX

Draco watched as Blaise disappeared quickly out into the nearest hallway, radiating panic. The bathroom, Blaise had said, apologetic, so Draco didn't worry himself over it, only giving him the directions to the closest water closet.

There was a time when coming home for the summer holidays was a small, intimate affair with him and his family, but he supposed that as he grew up, more of these formally-informal-but-quite-formal affairs would become more the norm. Pansy and the Parkinsons were there, since they would be family in only a few years, and Lord Riddle had seen fit to call a few other families to discuss the political situation. And it had snowballed from there, growing to include Uncle Severus, Minister Fudge, the Rookwoods, Lady Zabini with her lover, one of the non-noble Travers, and a handful of other SOW Party families.

It was an honour to be invited to these meetings. He had already sat in on a very interesting, high-level discussion with Lord Riddle, listening as Father provided a thorough update on the activities of the Ministry. A third of the clerks from the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had been transferred to support the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a third of the active creature-handlers and Improper Use of Magic officers would soon be added to the Auror corps as well. They had also gone through the Ministry and dismissed anyone likely to be involved with either _Bridge_ or Voldemort and his terrorists.

The reduced force, with no increase in funding, and the known influx of incompetents would tempt Voldemort into overreaching his hand and leaving the well-fortified Lestrange lands. Once off them, Lord Riddle and the SOW Party would be able to cut them off from their base and destroy them. There was a risk that the Ministry would fall in the meantime, but the reporting from _Bridge_ had lowered the Ministry's reputation to the point where, Lord Riddle considered, the current administration was an acceptable loss. After Voldemort was addressed, a new administration could be set up, and then they could turn to _Bridge_.

It should have made him happy, being invited to these discussions. It was exactly the life he had been preparing for, but nothing felt the way he had always expected.

He sighed, swirling his glass of wine. Pansy was beside him, but there was some part of her radiating resignation, though she never showed it when she looked at him. She smiled at him, perfectly pleasant, and she never said anything objectionable, even if Draco suspected she might disagree. Millicent hadn't talked to him the rest of the year, choosing to spend her time primarily with her friends in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and of course Draco hadn't come anywhere near forgiving Theo for his testimony about Harry in the Black trial. That only left Blaise, who was if anything _more_ present than usual, but his emotions were too sharp, too annoyed, not as aloof or amused as he had been in previous years. Even among a crowd of people, Draco often felt alone, as if his friends had somehow moved on without him.

He wished Rigel – Harry – were here. She would have been welcome company, and her dry sense of humour would have immediately set him at ease. Halfblood or not, she fit right in with the SOW Party. Just like Uncle Severus did, and he was sure that, as soon as Voldemort and _Bridge_ were dealt with and things calmed down, he could convince the SOW Party to allow her into their ranks. He was already being invited to high-level discussions, wasn't he? Blaise was very envious, he had said, though Draco had never felt anything like envy from him.

There was a light breeze from the window, the movement of the curtains attracting his attention. Draco turned to look outside, catching a scent that was just a little different, a little unexpected—

And the world exploded.

He heard shattering glass, and he didn't think before he threw himself on Pansy. A rain of glass blew towards them, barely missing them as they went down. Pansy had turned to the source of the noise, and her wand was already drawn.

"_Impedimenta!"_ she shrieked from the floor. Her voice was drowned by the explosions rocking around him, but Draco couldn't she if she had hit anything. She probably hadn't, her aim thrown off by Draco knocking her over, and she pushed him off her roughly, shifting to her knees, her eyes sharp and focused.

Draco rolled, looking up to see shards of glass flying – someone's attack spell now, since the glass was flying in formation, headed in one clear direction. "_Protego!"_ he shouted, but his voice came out a breathless whisper. It didn't matter, as his shield snapped up, deflecting any glass from hitting either him or Pansy.

The window gallery was a nightmare. He didn't know what to look at first – there was smoke everywhere, not all of it natural, and he heard someone casting a _Ventus_ spell. The room was swarmed with people, so many people that he didn't recognize, all dressed in black and wearing masks. His nostrils were filled with the scent of burning cloth, smoky and sour, and he coughed, tasting hot dust in the air. Someone was screaming, or many people were yelling, and he couldn't differentiate the different voices. There was too much noise, and his emotional senses were flooded: fear, anger, shock, rage, and a strange thrill of pleasure ran through him, from a dozen different sources.

His head ached, and he wanted to vomit. His shield wavered, and he staggered to his knees, upright.

Pansy was kneeling beside him, her blue eyes clear as she launched Banishing Charms at his mother's vases and lamps, knocking them over and blowing out the delicate light crystals inside. She looked around the room, her eyes fixing upwards, and she raised her wand.

He looked up, seeing the grand chandelier, and his eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" he shouted at her over the sound of crackling spellfire, raising his own wand – to stop her, or to help her, or to defend her from others, he didn't know yet. "What—"

"We're being attacked, Draco," Pansy snapped, carefully aiming before she fired a Severing Charm at the chain holding the chandelier up. It rocked, but it didn't come down, and she aimed again. "I don't know how many of them there are, but we need to go – we need to _get out_, and now. Help me!"

"But – but Malfoy Manor…" Draco leaned over, his hands on the floor, and he retched as one particularly strong wave of anger hit him. Someone near him, that he couldn't see, was beginning to cast at a speed that Draco hadn't heard before. "My father—"

Pansy reached over and grabbed his wrist, her long nails pinching at his skin as she fired the second Severing Charm. She was panicked, frightened, but also intensely focused. The chandelier rocked a second time, more violently, and she shook her head and started the spell again. "_Diffindo!_"

The chandelier crashed down, spilling crystal light spells across the floor and extinguishing them. It was dark, so dark, and Draco could see sparks of light as people started casting _Lumos_ Charms. The flickers of light didn't make things any clearer, only turning the morass sickening, flutters showing moments as people screamed in pain and cast spells and cried for their family members. A woman's voice was screaming the Torture curse, and Draco swallowed, wanting to vomit again.

He could see the shapes of the masked intruders, at least a dozen of them. Spells were being thrown willy-nilly, with no regard for friend or foe. He looked around for his parents, pale bobbing wandlights near useless with the sheer movement in the room, and he couldn't find them. He staggered to his feet, one glimpse in a flash of light showing his Uncle Severus blasting a nameless, masked witch or wizard into a wall with a sickening crack. He needed to do something – he couldn't stand here, frozen with shock and fear, even if a tsunami of emotion was rushing through his core. Mostly Pansy's, but there were so many people, and so much emotion, that even her anchor was barely holding.

He raised his wand, casting his own shaky _Lumos _charm, which didn't help other than to show that Pansy was covered in dust, a cut across her jawline dripping a line of blood that she hadn't noticed. Her blue eyes were alive, scanning the room frantically, then she shook her head, brisk, and Draco was slammed with another emotion through the anchor – desperation, resignation, firm determination, and a pain in her heart that ripped all the way through Draco's core, so strong he had to lean over, catching his breath.

A flash of green, and Draco gasped, whirling around. Green light meant the Killing Curse, even if Draco couldn't hear the incantation. He looked around for the source, sending his wandlight spinning through the air. Across the room, he caught sight of Lord Riddle face to face with a younger wizard, presumably Voldemort, the two men duelling in a gap left as other witches and wizards threw themselves out of the way. There was no sound from that corner, no spoken words – no warning to the spells they were casting. Both were intent, silent, focused entirely on the death they were throwing at each other.

The room was too small, and there was still crying, screaming, shouting, yelling. Another blast rocked the room, throwing Draco sideways and shoving him into Pansy. They fell down, sliding against the floor, but Pansy was up, pulling Draco up as well.

"We need to go!" She yelled at him again. "Out of the Manor, Draco!"

"I can't just—" Draco said, his voice a stutter. "I have to help!"

Pansy shook her head, throwing another spell over Draco's shoulder, a _Stupefy_. "We aren't being helpful here, Draco, we're only in the way. Where is the closest door, or window, or _way out?!_"

Draco hesitated, then began pulling her backwards towards the open window, when his attention was caught at the back of the room.

It was an arc of green light, one like so many that had been thrown earlier, curses that cleared a space around Lord Riddle and Voldemort that other witches and wizards desperately avoided. The Killing Curse took more power and focus than most wizards were willing to use, particularly in a duel when one often tried to conserve power, but when one had the power of Lord Riddle, or Voldemort, then it became a weapon of terror. Instant death in the form of an arc of light, and when it struck Lord Riddle underneath the ribs, there was a moment of sheer shock, of silence, as the strong, stern statesman teetered.

And then Lord Riddle, the most powerful wizard in the world, the guiding force of Wizarding British politics for nearly half a century, crumpled to his knees, falling with his face forwards, lifeless.

Draco stopped breathing, frozen in shock, and he heard the cry from the front as someone seized him and Pansy from behind. Pansy turned around, a spell already on her lips, but her wand was plucked out of her hand with no ceremony. Draco barely had time to raise his wand before it, too, was taken from his numb fingers. Light flooded the room, not from the chandelier, but from a brightly glowing ball of greenish-yellow light that threw the room into sharp relief.

The Malfoy window gallery was a ruin. Nearly every window had been blown inwards and glass littered the floor. The grand chandelier lay shattered, tilted in a grotesque array over a sofa and a broken coffee table. Some of the curtains were on fire, the crackle and pop letting live sparks into the air, the heat palpable. It smelled of blood and flames, and Draco swallowed hard, seeing slick blood on more than one person. There was a high-pitched laugh, and he looked around, seeing more masks than people he knew.

"It's _over_." A voice boomed out from the other end of the room, a cold, almost nasal voice that Draco would forever remember. The voice was comparatively high-pitched, for a man, but it wasn't the timbre that made it cold. It was the sense of utter and complete uncaring, of cruelty that echoed through it, which made Draco shudder.

The man was young, sharply handsome, with dark hair and cold, pitiless black eyes. His nose was narrow, pointed and delicate, like most pureblood witches and wizards, but he had heavy brows and a strong jaw. The wand in his hand was long, black, and he was the only one of them not to wear a mask. He didn't need one, because he had no need to hide.

None of them would have need to hide anymore, he realized, a hole opening up in his stomach as the waves of desperation, anger, sorrow, fear swept over and around him, like he was an island in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. The man standing behind him, holding his arms, pushed him and Pansy forward, and with a distant sense of horror he saw that it was Travers, Lady Zabini's lover. The fighting had mostly stopped, now – his father was being held by a wizard that Draco didn't recognize, while his mother looked furious at the laughing witch who held her. Aunt Bellatrix, of course.

"Not so perfect now, are you?" he heard her crooning to his mother. "Perfect Narcissa, pretty Narcissa, powerful Narcissa who did all the right things… not so pretty or powerful now, are you?"

His mother didn't dignify her sister with a response, even as Aunt Bellatrix stroked one finger along her jaw.

"Bella…" Voldemort's voice carried a low hint of warning, and his aunt straightened, shoving his mother away. His mother fell to her knees, but not a hint of complaint came from her. "Not now, pet. You can play with her later."

"My lord," Aunt Bellatrix murmured, almost singing, and she stepped back in line. Draco had rarely, if ever, seen that happen before. Aunt Bellatrix was famously unstable and uncontrollable.

He heard the sound of someone scrabbling, and he turned his head to see that the Lady Rosier had dropped, forcing her captors to bear her full weight as they dragged her forward. She was not a small witch, though she seemed to have lost some weight recently, and she still wore an expression of rage and defiance. Draco skimmed the room, taking a short, rattling breath as he realized there were bodies on the floor, and not only a few.

Edmund and his wife were pale, upright, standing with the Lord Selwyn, but the Lady Selwyn was on the ground and Alesana seemed to be on the verge of tears. The Lord Rosier's body lay not far from the Lady Rosier. Lady Zabini was still alive, though Draco felt her betrayal, sharp and keening, as she stared at her lover holding Draco and Pansy hostage. Blaise was nowhere to be seen, and Draco desperately hoped that maybe he had just gotten lucky, being in the washrooms, and he could still get help for them. Theo's uncle, the Lord Nott, was dead; Theo himself was not the Heir to House Nott, he was something like eighth in line, but now he would be the seventh. The Parkinsons were alive, Lord Parkinson's face pale with shock, Lady Parkinson teary. Seven masked, black shapes were lying on the ground, motionless, three of them close to the Lord Rosier's body. The Lord Rosier must have gone down fighting.

And Lord Riddle. Lord Riddle was dead, and Draco's mind was stuck, a single repeating line running over and over in his head. Lord Riddle was dead. Lord Riddle was dead. _Lord Riddle was dead_.

It wasn't grief he felt – his emotions towards the Lord Riddle had always been more in line with deep respect and fear than affection – but it was shock, it was a concept so unbelievable that Draco just couldn't process it in one moment.

There was a flash of silver – a Patronus, but not one that Draco recognized. Some kind of wild dog, Draco thought, perhaps a hyena. He didn't know well enough to be able to tell, and the silver masked any markings.

"The Ministry has been secured," a chilly voice said, and Draco suppressed a gasp. Caelum Lestrange, his cousin, had always been nasty but Draco would never have imagined he could have joined Voldemort, his family notwithstanding. Draco couldn't imagine anyone joining with Voldemort, any more than he could have imagined anyone joining _Bridge_.

"Twenty-seven dead, including three of ours," Caelum continued, his voice clinical and emotionless. "Mulciber wants to play with the clerks in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Instructions requested."

Draco leaned over, a punch in his gut as the wave of terror swept through the room. There would be no rescue, he realized – the only organized group that might have rescued them had been captured that same night. Even those few that had escaped, if they had escaped – Blaise, and he couldn't see his Uncle Severus anywhere – wouldn't have anywhere to go to get help. They were lost. They _had_ lost.

His brain couldn't process it. He was numb, and nothing felt real. Or it felt too real, like a vivid dream, and Draco wanted to wake up. Nothing about this made sense, and it couldn't be real. Lord Riddle could not be dead, and the Ministry could not have fallen. He could not be a hostage to a madman – such things simply didn't happen.

Voldemort had a slight smile on his face as the wild dog dissipated in the air. He twisted his wand, looked around the room, and his own Patronus, a great snake, appeared. Draco tried desperately to wake himself up.

"Message to Caelum Lestrange," the madman said, his voice light and pleased. "Well done. Mulciber may play with three of the clerks of his choosing – three of theirs for three of our dead. You have my approval to use all necessary measures to stop him after three."

The wizard flicked his wand, and the Patronus flew out the window, bound for the Ministry of Magic. Then, he turned back to room, scanning it with a small smile on his face, and waved his hand casually to the empty space before him. Draco and Pansy were pulled up, dragged into a rough line, and Travers handed their wands to another wizard, one that Draco didn't recognize.

"Seven dead," Voldemort said, his cold eyes looking over the floor, then he eyed Draco and the rest of the survivors. "Seven dead means seven _examples_, is that not right?"

The masked witches and wizards murmured, approval floating through Draco's emotional senses, and he shuddered, wanting to throw up. He pulled closer to Pansy, who was stiff, hard, radiating fury.

"Do we have any suggestions?"

Voldemort was amused, taking a step closer to their line to inspect each of them. Pansy stared him back, her blue eyes wide and angry as Draco gripped her hand, anchoring himself. Draco could barely look at the so-called Voldemort, choked as he was by Voldemort's intense sense of pleasure and happiness, while Edmund, beside him, was expressionless and projecting fear. Alesana, beside him, was crying, her dark makeup streaking down her face, while the Lord Selwyn was in shock, staring at his wife on the floor.

"You promised me my sister," Aunt Bellatrix said, petulant. "I want my sister. I want all the Malfoys, and the Parkinsons, too."

"Lord Parkinson was the lead witness against us at the Ministry." Draco looked over, recognizing the slow voice – Rabastan Lestrange, a tall, hulking figure in the back. "I agree that the Parkinsons should be made an example."

There was a slow murmur of agreement among several of the witches and wizards, and Draco could feel Pansy getting angrier, her rage underlaid by a hard sort of calculation. He was barely breathing, anymore – his hand was gripping hers, and suddenly, she shook him off.

He reached for her again, but she crossed her arms over her chest. Without his anchor, he couldn't breathe, the reeling emotions of fear and dread and horror mixed with an unsettling triumph and glee coming from everyone around him so strong that he was choking on it, his own fear only a drop in the sea. He heard everything being said, but it felt distant, dreamlike, drowned out by the emotions soaring around him. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

"The Malfoys and the Parkinsons make… six," Voldemort said, his lips curving into a small smile. "Seven of my dead means seven examples. We need one more."

There was a wave of whispers around the room, but no other voices called out. Draco swallowed, reeling, his mind frozen, battling the paralyzing fear suffocating him. He was dreaming, and he wanted out – he wanted to wake up, to find himself still in his bed at Hogwarts. Pansy would soon come knocking on his door and they would eat one last breakfast at Hogwarts to close out his year, before boarding the Hogwarts Express for their traditional journey home. He would meet his parents at Platform 9 and 3/4s, and they would go home, and they would have a quiet night with just his parents, just Pansy, just the Parkinsons. There would be no party, nothing, and everything would be as it always was.

His legs were leaden, heavy, and his face, his body were numb.

Voldemort's eyes lingered on the dead close to the Lord Rosier's body, then he went to the Lady Rosier, who was now upright, her eyes scanning the room. Draco tried to reach out to her emotions, but he couldn't feel them – the tsunami of fear was all-encompassing, even Pansy's fury only a tiny note in the wave.

"There is no escape, Lady Rosier." Voldemort's voice was light, considering. "But with three of mine dead at your hand, you would do well in my organization. Past mistakes can be forgiven."

Lady Rosier looked at him, her brown eyes uncommonly bright, and then she spat in his face.

Voldemort wiped the saliva off his cheek, expressionless, and then he slapped her, full across the cheek. "That makes seven. Bring the examples forward."

Draco felt himself being ushered forward, and he stumbled, tripping over his own feet. Travers cursed and punched him, a hard blow to his stomach, and Draco retched, vomiting over the man's leather boots. And that, more than anything, made it connect – this was not a dream. Draco could not feel this awful in a dream, and he forced himself to pull it together, to try to make sense of the madness.

Travers made a noise of disgust, kicking him, before shoving Draco to stand in a small group with Pansy, their families, and Lady Rosier, who was eyeing the room with an intense concentration that Draco couldn't understand. She had just lost her husband, but there was no shock, grief, sorrow or sadness on her face. Everyone behind him was reeking of guilt, exhausted relief, horror – one look back, and Draco knew that as much as the others might have been sorry for him, they were too guiltily grateful not to be picked. He felt a distant flash of anger, his own, but he could do nothing.

He didn't have his wand. And even if he did, what could he have done?

"The rest of you, hear me," Voldemort was announcing to the room. "The world is now a different place. The Lord Riddle is dead. No longer shall we suffer at the whims of a ruling class with no connection to the people, an oligarchy of the wealthy and nobles with access to different laws, different rights than the rest of us. No longer shall we work, only to see those less deserving earn greater rewards by a circumstance of birth. No longer shall we cower before the International Confederation of Wizards, nor shall we suffer the turmoil of a rabble of the lesser-blooded in the guise of a newspaper, simply because the ruling class, _your _ruling class, has decided that our priorities, our needs, are meaningless. You have each erred grievously in following the orders of the Lord Riddle, but I am forgiving. Loyalty brings reward, as each of my followers will tell you, while disobedience and disloyalty will bring swift punishment. There will be no nobility. There will be no Lords, no Ladies, no Heirs, and there will be no Wizengamot. Let this be a lesson to you: seven deaths of mine bring seven examples. We begin with the former Lord Malfoy."

Draco watched, his head aching abominably from the high emotions running as his father was dragged forward. He sucked in breath, long, deep breaths, trying to control himself and his gift, trying to rise above. One look at Pansy and she was staring at his father with a hard look on her face, a small crease between her eyebrows. She still burned with anger, and so did the Lady Rosier, standing close to his mother, who was now behind him, gripping him hard on his shoulder. He focused on her – she was afraid, so terribly afraid.

Voldemort nodded at his aunt, who had taken off her mask. A wild light danced in her eyes and her lips were curved upwards in a delighted, insane smile. Draco looked back at his mother, who was glaring daggers at her sister. Aunt Bellatrix caught the look and her smile widened as she took her position. "Your time will come in turn, my dear sister. I think… I'd prefer to let you watch your husband and son die first."

Draco swallowed, his throat dry, watching as she raised her wand. And the screaming began.

He shut his eyes, unable to watch, fixing his gaze on the floor. He focused on something else, anything else. His stomach still ached from where he had been kicked. His mother, behind him, radiated a potent mixture of fear and fury, while Pansy silently raged beside him. Lord and Lady Parkinson stank of terror. The people behind him, not long ago cheerfully discussing the state of the world, poured guilt and relief and horror into his senses, which were bizarrely underlaid with a haunting sense of pleasure coming from Voldemort's followers. He gasped, panting, trying to block out the sound in his ears.

It wasn't only once. His aunt was insane – totally and completely mad, and she took pleasure in doling out pain. She stretched it out, and Draco couldn't look. He didn't want to see his father like this, he didn't want to hear his father screaming, and it all became worse when his father lost his voice. Then, there was nothing but silence and fear, nothing breaking up Aunt Bella's taunts as she mocked him.

Worse still, he knew he was next, and some small, pitiable part of him hoped his father took a good long while to die because he was afraid. He was afraid for himself, and he ought to have been afraid for Pansy, for his mother, and he should be like his father or the Lady Rosier, facing death with a look of defiance on their faces. But he wasn't, because he wasn't even sixteen years old yet, he hadn't lived yet, and he was terrified for himself. He hated it. He hated himself for being afraid.

He didn't know how much time had ticked away, before he realized Lady Rosier was muttering something under her breath. He focused, listening.

"A diversion," she was muttering furiously, so soft he could barely hear it. "If I had more of a diversion…"

"You need a diversion?" Pansy's was interest piqued, and her voice was equally soft. "For what?"

"To get out," Lady Rosier replied, her voice only a whisper. "My son needs me. Aldon needs me."

Aldon wasn't her son, Draco recalled, as if from a distance. Blake wasn't her son, and she and the Rosiers had been the scandal of the year for concealing Aldon Blake's origins. He was a bastard, a halfblood, not a Rosier. He had been disowned, the Rosiers cutting him off to save themselves. It didn't make sense, but nothing made sense anymore. The world had turned upside down, in one night, and he couldn't make sense of anything.

"I can get you a diversion," Pansy was murmuring back. "In return, take them with you. My family. Draco, and Lady Malfoy."

There was a cool moment of silence, as Draco struggled to make sense of Pansy's words. Her emotions were high, but they were still angry, and he didn't understand. He didn't understand then what she was proposing.

"I can't guarantee all of them." Lady Rosier's voice was quiet, but hard. "I can't guarantee any of them. Prioritize. I can try to shield one or two, but beyond that, I can give only a chance."

Pansy hesitated, and Draco heard a slow, rattling breath from her chest. "My mother. Then Draco. Please."

"Done," Lady Rosier said, her voice firm stone. "Whenever you are ready."

Pansy nodded, the smallest movement given that she was so stiff, and she waited. Draco reached out for her, for her hand, not understanding anything, and she paused, looking at him with a cool, determined look in her eyes. "Be safe, Draco," she whispered, so soft he could barely hear it, and then, before he could say anything further, she lunged forward, pulling a wand from her robes – not her own.

"_Retexo!_" She shrieked, pointing her wand directly at his father, who exploded into nothingness. Draco sagged, his mother catching him, recognizing the spell – the Unravelling or Unmaking spell, the Light equivalent to _Avada Kedavra, _but so much worse because it left no body, nothing for families to mourn or Draco looked at her, mouth open in shock, she wore a hard, cruel look on her face. She strode forward, every step confident, flipping loose, golden blonde hair over her shoulder.

The wards fell to him, open, waiting for a new Lord Malfoy.

"My deepest apologies, my lord," Pansy said, and she swept a beautiful curtsey. "I have wanted to do that for months. Your people are not so good at protecting their own wands as they are at confiscating mine, I'm afraid. I could not let the opportunity pass me by. You and I, we are more alike than you think."

He froze, stiff, but his mother's fingers dug into his shoulder, and in the second where people were focused on Pansy, his brave, gutsy Pansy spewing elegant lies to a madman, he felt, more than he saw, a broad, sharp hand movement from the Lady Rosier, and a wave of magic slammed through the floors.

A crashing _boom_, and Draco flinched as the floors blew up – this time behind Voldemort's followers. The floor rocked, half the room staggering, and Draco smelled smoke and burning flesh. There was a roar of flames, hungry, and Draco felt himself being shoved backwards.

Lady Rosier had a wand out, a short, dark one that Draco didn't recognize, and she landed a vicious slashing curse of some kind on the guard behind them.

The guard fell back, swearing, and Lady Rosier didn't hesitate. She blasted him out of the way with an incantation Draco didn't recognize, grabbed Lady Parkinson and Draco's arm, and threw herself towards the closest window.

The curtains of this window were aflame, hot, and Draco felt several sparks catch on his robes. It hurt, the flames _hurt_, and he stumbled.

"Don't let her sacrifice go to waste," he heard Lady Rosier hiss, shoving him forward with a strength that he couldn't imagine her possessing. "Go, go – out the window! Now!"

Draco felt the breeze of the outdoors on his face, and he shut his eyes and jumped. There was another explosion behind him, and Lord Parkinson's voice rang out. "Go, Rose. I'll try to get Pansy. I love you – if I don't return, protect our home."

He didn't hear a reply, but his mother was beside him, her face a mask of pain. The Lady Rosier, dragging Lady Parkinson with one hand, landed heavily beside him. She whipped around to Malfoy Manor, made another sharp movement with her wand, and part of the roof and wall behind him collapsed in an avalanche of stones.

"Now _run_," she ordered, and she ran, faster than Draco would have ever thought a woman of her size would be able to move. She was pulling Lady Parkinson, who was sobbing while looking back at the smoking wreckage behind her. His mother slapped him on the shoulder, gesturing with a quick movement of her head for him to get moving, and Draco found his feet and started running after them.

He shouldn't. He shouldn't be running from his house, his manor. He shouldn't be abandoning Pansy, or the others behind him.

"Where are the outer limits of your Anti-Apparition wards, Narcissa?" Lady Rosier asked, calm, setting a strong pace. People were coming after them, but Draco heard other sounds – explosions, screaming. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as something blew up behind him, getting in the way of those chasing them. Bombardment and explosive charms, he realized, that Lady Rosier or someone had to be throwing down as they ran. "They didn't go down when Lucius fell. We have to get past the wards and Apparate – Rosier Place."

"The wards were built to remain if Draco or I were within," his mother panted, struggling to keep up. "Another hundred yards."

Lady Rosier nodded, the smallest movement, and put on another burst of speed.

Draco followed, picking up his own pace to match, but his mother stumbled. He grabbed her arm, pulling her upright, forcing her to follow and fighting his urge to turn back. Or, maybe he was forcing himself forwards.

He shouldn't be running – he should be claiming his manor, a part of his mind was screaming, and he should be using the powers behind Malfoy Manor to kick out these intruders, to protect Pansy and the others, to do _something_. But he couldn't get to the keystone now, it was inside the manor, inside the grand ballroom, and even once he claimed it, what could he do?

His father hadn't been able to keep Voldemort out. The wards they had weren't enough to keep Voldemort or his followers out. And he didn't have a wand.

Lady Parkinson was struggling to keep up, and Lady Rosier pointed her wand at her. From the jerk, Draco guessed she had slapped a Weightless Charm on the woman, because she bolted forward. Draco sped up more, forcing himself forward, his breath harsh and uneven in his chest.

He felt the change in pressure as he passed the wards, a part of his core noting it and telling him so. His mother grabbed his arm, twisting into Side-Along Apparition, and Draco barely found his feet on the other side. A different part of Britain, rolling hills with few trees that he could see, and the grounds were well-manicured.

"The wards are up. Aldon remembered," Lady Rosier remarked, only slightly winded, a note of approval in her voice as she approached the invisible line in the dirt. She paused at it, thoughtful, then crossed over. "He's allowing us entry. Come, it's a walk. He's wary, and we can see what three months of boot camp have done to my boy."

"Is anyone following?" his mother asked, panting and pale. She was terrified, and Lady Parkinson was sobbing, taking ragged breaths as she indecorously wiped her eyes with a shaky hand. "I don't understand how… the wards…"

"Unlikely," Lady Rosier replied, striding forwards. "It is good that Evan fell in the first wave – Aldon had a bit of time to secure his position. Voldemort got in probably because Travers, Lady Zabini's lover for the past year, was on his side – he either found a way to disable the wards from the inside, or he carried something that created a weakness to exploit. My guess would be the latter. I also dropped a surprise on our Apparition point. It will wipe our Apparition residue and hopefully blow someone sky high."

Draco didn't understand half of what she had said, but he looked between Lady Parkinson, sobbing, and Lady Rosier, who was able to comment that her husband's death was _fortunate_. He strode after her, not entirely sure what else to do – he had no manor now, no wand, and what else was he supposed to do now?

It was cold that night, and Draco shivered – he was still wearing formal robes, and ones for a warm summer event indoors, not ones for hiking across the grounds. The breeze blew right through them, his cold sweat chilling him to the bone. His boots, fine grey velvet, were ruined in the mud. It seemed to take them an hour to walk the grounds, though realistically it could not have taken so long.

He recognized Rosier Place from a distance, the four columns holding up the front foyer, and he hurried forward, seeing the light and warmth. Blake was no friend of his, but Blake was safer than Voldemort, and Blake knew and cared for Pansy. They were even still in contact, Draco thought, so he would help. He had to help, because there was no other option. Someone had to help.

The shot came out of nowhere. "Halt!"

Blake's voice was hard, and Draco froze, seeing the foreign item in Blake's left hand, while he held a wand in his right. There was movement on either side of Blake, and Draco picked out two others coming out of the shadows closer to the house. The Lord Black, wand drawn, stood on Blake's left, with the Lord Queenscove, not even a real Lord, stood on the right, his sword gleaming slightly under the stars.

Blake's hawkish eyes were predatory in the dark. "State your name, and your business. Be warned that I will know if you lie."

Draco took a shaky breath in, but the Lady Rosier radiated a strange sense of approval as she gestured for his mother to take Lady Parkinson from her. She turned to Blake, taking two slow steps forward. Blake's arm didn't waver, his aim shifting to track his mother, but the Lady Rosier showed no fear whatsoever.

"My name is Lina Avery, Stormwing," she said, her voice echoing oddly in the silence, and she made a motion that Draco couldn't see, a flash of silver appearing in the dark. "My torture limit is thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds, my chosen attributes duty, tolerance, and caution. I come to offer you, my lord Rosier, my services as a warmage. The Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen."

XXX

Aldon stared at the woman he had formerly called his mother. The statement read as true, but he didn't trust it. He knew her, and a few pounds lost or not since he had last seen her, this was still the woman he had called his mother for eighteen years. He was tired, but this was important, and he couldn't lose focus now.

"Are you known by any other names?" he asked, mentally scrambling for a plan.

His mother's lips curved into a bigger, approving smile. "I am known as Eveline Rosier, the Lady Rosier, within Wizarding Britain. I prefer to be known as Lina Avery. There are other names, but they're not important."

Aldon thought, not lowering his weapon. That was not a lie, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. He wished he could take a look at Neal, or even the Lord Black, but he didn't dare take his eyes off his mother. Even if he had, he wasn't sure either of them would have provided much help.

"And what am I to you?" The question was awkward, but his brain wasn't working. He was so tired, and his thinking was staccato, broken, small points of sense floating in a sea of sludge.

"You?" The woman tilted her head in thought, a motion so familiar to Aldon that he had a sense of déjà vu. "My … foster son, should we say? I raised you as my son, though you weren't. Have me state that I intend you no harm next. That should satisfy enough of your concerns – I'd like to get under cover, and preparations need be made."

Aldon scowled – he ought to have thought of that. He would have, if he weren't so tired. "State whether you intend any harm to me, or to the Lords Black and Queenscove. Or to Rosier Place."

"I intend you no harm, Aldon," his mother said, and the statement rang as true. "I further intend no harm to the Lords Black and Queenscove and to Rosier Place."

Aldon wavered, thinking it through. She wasn't deceiving him, and while he knew his gift could be tricked and that things could change, he was reasonably certain that the statement was enough, at least for one night. He didn't lower his weapon, not yet. "My father?"

She shook her head, expression grim, and Aldon didn't need to ask further. Instead, he shifted his weapon to the Malfoys, standing behind her, and the Lady Parkinson. "Each of you, state your name and your business, and whether you intend any harm to me, or to my allies."

A moment of silence, but Lady Malfoy spoke first. Her voice was weaker than Aldon was accustomed, unlike anything he had ever heard from her before, but Lord Riddle had fallen. As tired as he was, he could still tell that whatever had happened, it was grim and harrowing. "My name is Lady Narcissa Malfoy. I and my son seek sanctuary, Lord Rosier. We intend you no harm, nor to your allies, nor to Rosier Place."

"I see that you believe that," Aldon replied, trying to sound polite and cordial, but firm. It was no small thing for one noble family to ask another for sanctuary, and she was telling the truth. "I accept the statement for yourself, but I will need your son to state the same."

Lady Malfoy nodded, small and bird-like, and patted her son on the shoulder. Draco Malfoy started, staring at Aldon as if he had only just seen him. "Draco – Draco Malfoy. Heir Malfoy. I am – why do we need to do this?"

His mother leaned over, whispering into his ear, and Aldon was almost surprised to notice that the Heir Malfoy was as tall as his mother now. Narcissa had always been tall for a woman, taller than Aldon even at his full adult height. Malfoy frowned. "He knows who we are, mother, and Pansy—"

"Do it, Draco." Lady Malfoy snapped, and her stern voice was loud enough to come across the short stretch separating Aldon from their small group.

The Malfoy Heir let out a breath, turning to Aldon. "I intend no harm to you and your allies, or to Rosier Place."

Aldon's core rang – it wasn't a lie, but something weaker than a lie. It was only mildly uncomfortable, a careless statement which he guessed meant that Malfoy hadn't thought much about whether he intended any harm or not. He shook his head. "Liar," he muttered, but he could deal with Malfoy later, under cover. "Lady Parkinson?"

"My name is Lady Rose Parkinson." The woman was standing on her own power, now, and her words were slow, grief-stricken and weary. "I – I intend you no harm, Lord Rosier, and I need – my daughter. She's still back there, at Malfoy Manor. I will give you whatever is in my power to give, if you will assist me in getting her back. I—"

"Aldon has no resources to assist you in getting your daughter back, Lady Parkinson." His mother's voice cut in, quiet but firm. "Pandora gambled with her life, but she and your husband bought you your escape. Be grateful. Go home and fortify your estate. We can see what world we have in the morning."

Lady Parkinson broke again, falling to the ground in wailing sobs that Aldon hated to see, but he didn't know what else to do. He had no army, and as he had said to Lord Black earlier that night, he would not be haring off to Malfoy Manor without more information. Based on what he saw before him, it was worse than he had imagined previously. It had not been a bloodless coup, and he distantly wondered who else had been there, who else had died that night. He pulled himself back together, focusing on the situation in front of him – he could find out later.

"Avery!" Lord Black snapped, his wand already sheathed, and he strode forwards to kneel beside Lady Parkinson. "You could have some empathy – If I understand rightly, she lost her daughter and her husband in one night."

"I have no time for empathy right now, Lord Black." His mother turned around, scanning the grounds. She made a movement with her wand, a Summoning Charm, and a ritual knife flew into her hands, as well a Pepper-Up Potion and two Blood Replenishers. "I, too, have lost a dear friend tonight, but I haven't time to grieve. Voldemort has made his move. We are safe enough for tonight, I believe, but we must fortify. Aldon, your decision?"

Aldon hesitated, glancing at Neal, who tilted his head from side to side. He couldn't read his friend's mind, but the sword had lowered, so there was no imminent risk, he thought. Lord Black had one arm around Lady Parkinson, rubbing her back while she sobbed. Lady Malfoy was pale with apprehension, while Draco Malfoy still seemed to be in shock, his blue eyes roving between Aldon, the Lord Black, Neal and Lady Parkinson.

"Very well," Aldon said finally, clicking the safety of his gun back on and shoving it back in his holster. "Mother—"

"Just call me Lina, Aldon, if you don't mind." His mother uncorked the Pepper-Up Potion, throwing it back. She swallowed, and for a second Aldon saw that she was exhausted, if pushing herself forwards. "Christie is your mother, not I. What is it?"

Aldon sighed, motioning for her to come closer with a careful look at the Malfoys. He hesitated a moment, but he didn't see any other option, and she had told the truth. He lowered his voice. "You – you offered your services as a warmage. Neal told me about Stormwings. He said you sell your talents. What is your price?"

His mother's eyes brightened, and she smiled suddenly, amused and alive as Aldon had never seen in his life. His mother had always been even, slightly bored, focused on her newspaper or her own pursuits. She had never paid much attention to him – not that she hadn't cared for him in her own way, but she was often away in France, and had left much of his upbringing to the house-elves. She made sure he was fed, that he had good clothing, and that he kept at his studies, but she had never been present in his life the way that, well, Christie had been in the last year. Christie always asked after him, checked on him, spoke to him and invited him to watch telly with her, or to get dinner with her, or to go out to the shops with her.

The woman before him looked like his mother, and she even felt like his mother, but there was something very clearly not Eveline Rosier about her. Her brown eyes were sharp, alive, her posture confident, and mentally he corrected himself to her chosen name, Lina. It made more sense than trying to force her into the mold he remembered.

"We will call this my payment, Aldon," Lina said, reflective. "Your father did me a considerable service, providing me with a cover and giving me a home in Wizarding Britain these last few decades. I made my promises to him years ago in return. This is one of them."

Aldon swallowed, nodding. He wasn't sure he understood, but he didn't know if he had to understand, tonight. "Then – what comes next? What do we do next?"

"Next?" Lina shut her eyes, thinking for a moment. "Tonight, we fortify. Call your mother. Get her and her people here, or they need to be out of the country as soon as possible – Wizarding Britain has just become more dangerous for her and all lesser-blooded. I'll call Alastor Moody – he is annoying, even for an old Stormwing, but he is a halfblood and he chose _righteousness _as an attribute. He'll help, and we'll set traps across the grounds. If Voldemort wants to assault Rosier Place tonight, he'll bleed for it."

"What about the Malfoys?" Aldon gestured to the two blondes with his wand, keeping his voice down. "Lady Malfoy spoke truth, but Draco – Draco repeated the words, but it rang as… a lie of omission. My sense is that he hasn't considered whether he has an intent to harm us or not."

Lina shook her head. "That's your decision, Aldon. I recommend we give sanctuary to Lady Malfoy – she was a ranking member of the previous government and is an eyewitness to what happened tonight, and she has political credibility. If she can be trusted, she might be helpful rallying the remaining SOW Party members, or we can send her to the International Confederation of Wizards to raise the alarm. As for her son, we can hold him as leverage for her good behaviour, but it is a risk. We have holding cells in the cellars, or you can put him under house arrest in the guest wing."

Aldon nodded, biting his lip and thinking it over. He would have liked to say the holding cells, but the Malfoy Heir hadn't outright lied. Ill treatment would only be an encouragement for him and for the Lady Malfoy to betray them later, but neither could he intrinsically trust that Malfoy wouldn't betray them. "Guest wing, then."

He turned to the Malfoys, taking a few steps towards them and bowing properly, a bow of equals. "Lady Malfoy, I accept your request for sanctuary on behalf of yourself and your son. However, since your son cannot clearly tell whether he intends any harm to me, my allies or my manor at this time, I will be restricting your movements to your rooms in our guest wing. This may of course be revisited at a later time, when you have overcome your shock."

Lady Malfoy nodded, her forehead creasing as she looked down and curtsied. It felt odd, surreal, because Aldon was only newly the Lord Rosier, and his was a Book of Copper family, while Lady Malfoy was in the Book of Gold. Even now, she outranked him. "I … thank you, Lord Rosier, for your consideration."

Aldon nodded, a little jerky, and called for one of his house-elves. Ummi agreed, without comment, to make the Malfoys comfortable in a nice suite in the guest wing and led them indoors. She would put up elf-wards to restrict movement, but Aldon took the moment to rearrange the wards around that section of the guest wing to provide him with notice if either Lady Malfoy or Draco attempted to wander.

The next few hours were exhausting, and Aldon was so tired. Later, he would remember only pieces, all of them connected with a sort of dreamy quality that he thought came from his own exhaustion and wrung nerves. Lord Black walked Lady Parkinson inside, going with her through the Floo to Parkinson Palace to help her fortify her estate. Neal, however, stayed with him, though Aldon told him he could go.

"I'll stay the night. Let me send a Patronus to Mama. I want to know what happened," he said, shaking his head, then he dismissed his sword into non-being in favour of his wand. A ghostly leopard seal appeared in the air, which twisted in the air while Neal recited a message for it, then disappeared.

Aldon nodded, wordlessly grateful, casting his own Patronus to send to Christie, telling her to come to Rosier Place as soon as possible. She appeared not even a quarter of an hour later, her eyes wide and anxious, and Aldon would never forget the moment when Lina took her aside to tell her that his father had died.

"Evan?" Christie whispered, her expression crumpling, as tears began forming in her eyes. "No, not Evan. I – I can't—"

She was incoherent after that, dissolving into tears, while Lina glared at Aldon. Aldon gestured wordlessly, helpless and unsure of what she expected of him, but Neal took over. He went over to Christie, wrapped his arms around her and let her sob quietly into his shoulder.

"Put her in your father's old rooms," Lina murmured, putting one hand on Aldon's shoulder and somehow sounding disappointed in him, though Aldon didn't know why. "It'll provide some small comfort to her, and had your father any balls, it's where she ought to have been for decades."

Aldon agreed, and walked Christie to his father's old rooms. She sat down heavily in the sofa in the middle of his father's private parlour, sniffling. He fished in his pocket for a moment, finding a handkerchief, and handed it to her while he went into his father's bedroom in search of the drawer of clean, monogrammed handkerchiefs he had found earlier. He hesitated, then brought the whole stack out for her.

"Is there, er, anything else I can do for you right now?" he asked, setting the stack on the low-lying table in front of her.

She shook her head, a wordless no. Aldon stood, turning to go outside, but hesitated for a second. "Er, call me, or one of the house-elves, if you need anything. You can just, er, call out and clap your hands twice. The house-elves know the signal."

Outside, Lina was sending her Patronus, a lynx, with a message for Alastor Moody. The famed former Auror, Duelling Master, Stormwing and former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts Apparated in only a few minutes later, not even sending a reply Patronus, and Aldon wordlessly shifted the dimensions of his estate to give the man a shorter distance to cover as he hobbled over the hill. Aldon had never had any interaction with him, having refused to take Defense beyond his OWL year, but he recognized the lion of a man, electric blue eye rolling, from Hogwarts.

"_Caution_," the old Auror said, his voice husky and grating. The word was directed to Lina, who smiled, a little mocking, at the sight of him. "How goes the mercenary business?"

"_Righteousness_," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Very well, thank you. Mind stating for the Lord Rosier whether you intend any harm to him, to Rosier Place, or to anyone staying here? It's our policy."

Moody's electric blue eye roved over to Aldon, looking him over from head to toe. "Truth-Speaker," he acknowledged in a rough grunt. "I intend no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone presently staying at Rosier Place."

The words passed through Aldon's core, without any indication of a lie, and Aldon glanced at Lina and nodded.

"Thank you." Lina smiled, but there was nothing truly warm about it, only tired and resigned. "This isn't a social call, however. Lord Riddle is dead, Alastor. The Ministry has fallen."

The old Auror laughed, a rusty, creaky noise coming from his chest. "And you, Lina? Dropping your respectable pretensions?"

Lina shrugged, uncaring. "Respectability doesn't matter anymore, not in the world Voldemort wants to create. I made my choices, and my promises. Are you helping or not? As few exploits as you have to your name, you are a Stormwing."

Moody snorted, one eye spinning wildly around to examine Rosier Place, Aldon, Neal, and the Lord Black. "I have never tried to compete in the ridiculous Stormwing game of exploits. I am not you, Lina – I did not get my fellow trainees killed in my efforts to do something bigger, wilder, and more dangerous. But if Lord Riddle and the Ministry have indeed fallen, then we are now at a crossroads. I will help, if only to act as a check on you."

"I chose _caution_ for a reason, Alastor." Lina's voice seemed to have dropped several degrees, a sharp warning. Her brown eyes flashed, and one hand twitched towards her wand. "I have not been that Lina Avery for many years."

"And yet, since then, I have heard about a dangerous hit in Wizarding Africa, two insurgencies in the Middle East, and an insanely difficult hostage extraction from a Wizarding manor in Russia?" Moody's eyes, both of them, fixed on Lina for a moment, but a small smile danced on his lips. "You still love the thrill, Lina, though you plan better now than you once did. Who else have you in mind? I will call Benjamin – a halfblood, he was the only one of my protégés to choose Stormwing training. He's working in South America devising plans against the cartels for Wizarding Colombia, but he will return for this."

Lina shook her head. "I know no one else, but I will make a request for trainees. We'll see who steps forward. I need to mine the grounds, Alastor – your help would be appreciated, especially since you are Light, and fresher than I."

"Running off a Pepper-Up, are you?" Moody laughed again, but there didn't seem to be any cruelty behind it. "I see that, and the knife and Blood Replenishers. It's been a long time. Let's go mine the grounds, then."

"Aldon, redo the wards," Lina ordered, turning to the edge of the grounds, ritual knife in hand and pulling up the sleeve of her robes. Aldon could see Lord Black eyeing the knife with distaste, but Lina was ignoring him. "The most complex ones you can manage for tonight. Master Regulus Black was at the gathering tonight, which means Voldemort now has a Master of Ward Construction at his disposal."

Aldon grimaced, and went inside to secure the wards. He did not have a Mastery in Ward Construction, and he didn't know how his self-taught talents would hold up against someone formally trained in the skill. He would need several more days, but for the night, he added the three-layer password that he had developed for Queenscove onto his Floo, as well as the explosive collapse charm, and wove in two more defensive charms and an extra four layers of monitoring spells. He wished, for a moment, that he had Queenscove's solid walls to fall behind as well.

It was near four in the morning before they settled into the family dining room, the Lord Black having returned, and Aldon called for a second carafe of coffee.

Lina took a moment to pour herself a mug, black, wrapping her hands around it and lifting it to her lips. The sleeve of her robe fell to reveal her forearm, and Aldon saw six fresh cuts. They would scar, he knew, because he had one of those himself. Blood magic, and he wondered vaguely why she hadn't Healed herself.

"Lord Riddle called for a meeting at Malfoy Manor tonight," Lina began, her tone succinct and clear, and Aldon brought his eyes back up to her face. "It was not a serious meeting, only one to discuss the current situation and plan next steps. Lady Zabini's lover, Burgess Travers – he was Voldemort's spy. My guess is that he was carrying a runecatch tonight, creating a weakness in the wards that Voldemort could exploit. They hit around eleven-thirty, perhaps a little earlier—"

"Terrible reporting, Lina," Moody said with a snort, though there was a spark in his one brown eye, while his electric blue one rolled, looking around Aldon's dining room. "They taught you better than that, in the Eyrie."

"It wasn't as if I expected an attack, Alastor," Lina sniped back, then she yawned. "Burgess Travers has been with Lady Zabini for more than a year. He wasn't considered to be part of the inner circle, as Lady Zabini was, but he was thought trustworthy. I caught sight of the time close to midnight, after the main fighting had calmed down – the death of Lord Riddle shattered the resistance. We were outnumbered. After the deaths, I counted about two dozen of them, so their assault force numbered thirty."

"Only thirty?" Moody huffed a laugh, sarcastic, but from the expression on his face, Aldon didn't think he found it funny in the least. "You're losing it, Lina. I know you've faced worse odds."

Lina shook her head, grim. "Small quarters, Alastor. There were twenty-three at the party – the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, Lady Zabini with Burgess Travers, the Selwyns, the Rookwoods, the Notts, Master Black, Master Snape, Lord Riddle, the Crouches, Minister Fudge, and us. Aside from Evan and Riddle, Lord Nott, Lady Selwyn and Minister Fudge also died in the assault. Seven of theirs died, and I think the younger Zabini and Master Snape managed to get away in the hubbub."

Aldon shuddered. He knew the Lady Selwyn, Alice's mother, and she had been a kind woman. He hadn't known her well, but any time he and Ed had gone to the Selwyns, she had always greeted them personally and made sure that they had a plate of cookies and milk close to hand. He had liked that, as a child; Lady Selwyn was present in Alice's life in a way that his mother had not been in his. And with Minister Fudge dead as well as Lord Riddle, the Ministry, too, was without a leader, figurehead though he might have been.

"How many at your hand?" Moody's tone held no judgement, only curiosity, and a glance showed that the man wore a tiny smile.

"Three." Lina took a sip of her coffee, and there was wry pause. "I could have done better. They took me by surprise."

Moody laughed, a harsh sound, but Aldon thought it was in genuine amusement. "Constant vigilance, Lina!"

Lina shook her head, looking upwards as if in a plea, but continued with another sip of her coffee. "Voldemort was less than pleased at losing seven, so he picked seven of ours to be tortured and executed as examples to the rest."

"Very Old Testament," Neal muttered, red-eyed from lack of sleep. He had turned down the coffee, and he looked ready to drop. Aldon wasn't sure why he was there still, but having him sitting beside him, someone his age but seemingly more familiar with battle, provided some comfort. He would owe Neal for this, he suspected, but that was fine.

"I suspect Voldemort is an _eye for an eye, hand for a hand_ sort of man," Lina remarked dryly, stifling another yawn. "He picked the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, and me. I might have gone unnoticed, if I hadn't killed so many, and if I hadn't spat in his face when he offered me the chance to join his mad organization. Then, when he was having Bellatrix Lestrange torture Lucius, I seeded the grounds with explosion and fire runes. I still had my second wand, but didn't want to show it so early, so it took some time to do with runes alone. Pandora Parkinson agreed to provide me with a diversion, in exchange for her mother and Draco Malfoy's lives, so while she drew attention, I fired the runes and made it out."

Aldon shut his eyes, a ball of pain forming in his chest, and he swallowed. Lina's voice was cut and dried, but this was Pansy. He had known Pansy since they were both children. She was only sixteen years old, and she should never have had to make that choice. She should never have done it – it should have been someone else stepping forward instead of her. It should never have been Pansy.

Lina sighed, a long and low breath, looking down at her mug. "Lord Black—"

"If my brother is there, then Grimmauld Place isn't secure," the Lord Black finished with no inflection, and he shook his head. "Just Sirius, Lina. I'll call James. I have regent powers over Potter Place in his absence and sealed the wards, but only the sitting Lord can invoke the hidden defenses. James may also be able to pull together some of the Ministry to mount a defense, if the Ministry has fallen."

Lina nodded, short, then she looked at Aldon, liquid brown eyes surprisingly alert even if she was so obviously tired. "Aldon, who can you call on? How many groups have you made agreements with, this past year?"

Aldon swallowed again, his throat a little dry. It took a minute for him to unstick his jaw – there was a part of him unsure of what, if anything, he should say, but he didn't think it mattered anymore. Lord Riddle and the Ministry had fallen, so the time for subterfuge was gone. "The British International Association funds _Bridge, _and obviously seek a repeal of the halfblood and Muggleborn discrimination laws. Cedric Diggory is gathering the Welsh, though there are few of them, in return for a revocation of the laws on traditional casting. The Scottish Clans and the shifter Alliance – the Clans are seeking Scottish independence, while the shifter Alliance wants greater representation in the Wizengamot. I also have a spy in Voldemort's camp passing me information, but he is lowly placed. He didn't know about tonight."

His core rang slightly with his own lie, but if the world had changed, that only meant that Lestrange was in a more dangerous position, and that the information he had to give would be even more valuable. Saying anything different was dangerous, and Aldon could only hope that his life debt was enough to keep Lestrange in line.

He would have to research the extent of life debts, he realized. He didn't know how far his life debt would stretch, but it couldn't possibly cover this. Maybe a few months of this kind of risk, but a life debt was not a blank cheque, much as it often was treated as one. He would need to find something else to promise Lestrange, or another motivator, and he made a note to come back to this issue in the morning.

"The Irish?" Lina's voice was sharp. "The Guilds?"

Aldon shook his head, weary. "Arcturus Black managed to persuade one of the priestesses of the Tuatha Dé to a meeting later this month. I have had no contact with the Guilds."

Lina sighed, looking around the small table. There was Aldon, and there was Neal beside him. Lord Black sat on his other side, grim, while Lina and Moody were across the table, serious but in control. "I don't need to explain this to anyone, but the world has changed tonight. We need what allies we can get, we need to organize a formal resistance, and we must raise the alarm internationally. Lord Black, if you could reach out to Lord Dumbledore? And we'll need to find someone trustworthy to rally the other SOW Party families, as well, before Voldemort can get to them. It's past four – we ought to sleep a few hours, then the owls can begin going out first thing in the morning."

Aldon nodded, standing up, and he gestured politely for the others to follow him. His house-elves were excellent – true to their word, they had prepared guest rooms for Neal and the Lord Black already. While the Lord Black opted to return home to his son, that meant that a room was already prepared for Moody, who inspected the premises with one mad, rolling eye before expressing gruff thanks and shutting Aldon out of his rooms.

"Stormwings," Neal muttered, sounding both awed and resigned in the same breath. "_Absolument fous, _the lot of them."

Aldon nodded his agreement, before opening another door for Neal. "Thank you for staying tonight," he said, looking down awkwardly. "I – appreciate it."

Neal studied him with a bright, emerald-green eye. "Don't worry about it, Al," he said, and Aldon let the nickname go, this time. "Queenscove will be behind you. I'll see you in the morning."

There was one more surprise waiting for Aldon in his old rooms, the rooms made for the boy that he once was, but that he was no longer. The ghostly swallow paced along the back of his sofa, looking around warily – a private message, one to be delivered only when no one else was present. The Patronus saw him, stiffened, and its beak opened.

"Immunity," it said. "_Etiquette for All Occasions_, seventh edition, London printing."

Aldon let a long, slow breath out, feeling both relief and responsibility pounding on him, as the Patronus faded away.

XXX

The halls of Rosier Place seemed different already, with Aldon as the sitting Lord. Lina sighed, deeply tired, opening the doors to the family quarters. She wasn't young anymore, and tonight she felt every one of her fifty-seven years. In her twenties, even her thirties, blasting through impossible situations on magic, physical skill, and wits had been a thrill like nothing else, but now she felt slow, drained, and her entire body ached. She was running on less magic than she had in years – she had blown her entire core in her escape, then had fortified the grounds in blood magic and Pepper-Up Potion.

Aldon, she assumed, had taken back his own rooms on the third floor. She skipped the door to her own rooms on the first floor, taking the stairs for the second, each of her steps heavy. Exhausted as she was, she could go longer without sleep; Stormwing training included a significant sleep deprivation component, and she wouldn't begin to hallucinate for at least another two days.

She could use a few hallucinations right now. If she didn't look, she could imagine another shape walking beside her, mocking French ringing in her ears. Étienne would have had something to say about tonight, most of it biting and angry. He would have hated the pomp of Malfoy Manor – he would have hated Rosier Place, and he would have probably hated Eveline Rosier, too. He had always said that Lina wasn't really one of them, one of the vaunted, wealthy, pureblood nobility, and Lina had believed him. Étienne had walked with her on a different path, one where she would be free.

Then he died. He had died defending _her_, and Lina had run back to the life she had once run from, because it was easier than coping with a future without her best friend. And for years, she had jumped between places she didn't want to be, people she didn't want to be: Lina Avery, the Stormwing who had gotten her best friend killed, or Eveline Avery, the noblewoman who never wanted to marry. It was only here at Rosier Place that Lina had found her place.

She had only ever wanted a place to belong. She hadn't belonged with the Averys, Dark, pureblood, and noble as she might be, but she hadn't belonged entirely in Étienne's world either. She was comfortable in his half-Muggle, half-wizarding world, but it could never be her home – not without him.

Christie and Evan had given her a home, unorthodox as it might be. And Aldon had been a part of that home – family and not family all at once.

She had promised Evan she would protect them.

Evan's rooms weren't the ones that she remembered. She had only rarely been in them, but the books had always been cleared away, a picture of his family had held the position of pride over his mantlepiece, and the titles on his bookshelves were a motley array of spellbooks, wizarding business guides, and biographies of notable witches and wizards. Those had now turned into mysteries and thrillers, which were also stacked on his coffee and side tables, while a promotional poster for a film called _Murder on the Orient Express_ now hung over the fireplace. Lina wondered, offhand, which of them had been into the genre first – him, or Christie? Or maybe it was something they had found together, the glue that had bonded them over the years, made them feel as if they were together even when they were worlds apart.

Christie sat, head in hands, on the sofa in the middle of Evan's parlour. She said nothing when Lina entered – the woman had been crying, Lina assumed, but there were no more tears now. There was only numb silence.

Lina sat down beside the other woman but made no move to touch her. She had never been demonstrative with her affection, but Christie knew her well enough to know that.

There was no sign that Christie acknowledged her presence beside her, and Lina cast about for something to say. She would have liked to shove this duty onto someone else, anyone else, but there was no one. Christie knew few others, and Aldon was no doubt in shock and refusing to admit it even to himself. Aldon would not have been a good choice anyway – with the ruse of his childhood, she and Evan had effectively deprived him of the warmest influence he could have had, and a year of Christie had not fixed that. Based on his helpless reaction to Christie's tears earlier, he wouldn't have known what to do.

"Evan loved you," Lina settled on eventually, looking away from Christie. Instead, she focused on the coffee table in front of them. John le Carré, _The Little Drummer Girl_. It looked like Evan had been about three-quarters of the way through it. "He never stopped loving you. This room, everything…"

"I know," Christie replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "He wrote me enough letters, begging me to come back to him – I know."

Lina bit back the words that she had said to Christie far too often. _Leave him, because you are far too good for him. _Christie had always laughed, a sad and embarrassed sound, and said that she knew she should. But it was Evan, and between his cowardice and the hurt of being not good enough to be acknowledged, there were thousands of moments where none of that mattered. There were trips abroad, there were an untold number of gifts and casual kindnesses, there were romantic nights and morning afters. There were movies with buttery popcorn, dinners at greasy diners and high-end restaurants both, a million meaningless conversations about anything and everything. And there was the Rosier Investment Trust, holding them together.

"I'm sorry," Lina said, though she wasn't sure why. She wasn't sorry over Evan's death – a dear friend Evan might have been, but they had known the danger of the last few months. Evan had known he was unlikely to survive. They had talked about it – in any situation of danger, Evan had made clear to her that he was not to be a priority. "Evan, he was never…"

"He wasn't a fighter." Christie laughed, a sick sound, and she hugged her arms around herself a little tighter. "He wouldn't even fight for me, or for Aldon, so—so—"

Lina nodded, but even as Christie said the words, she knew that they didn't help in the least. The head could reason all it wanted, but the heart was another thing altogether. Christie had no doubt told herself this very thing a hundred times, and yet she had always been pulled back into Evan's orbit.

"Evan loved you," Lina repeated uselessly, waving a hand around the room – at the bookshelves, at the poster, at the stack of books on the table. "He would have wanted you to be here, to have everything here. He tried, in his own way. He always gave you and Aldon everything you could have ever wanted, didn't he?"

"Except himself." Christie looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I would have – forget the penthouse, Eveline, and the jewelry and the vacations and the money and the business. I just wanted him and Aldon with me. We could have been beggars, but I wouldn't have cared, if they were with me."

"And he couldn't imagine that you would have loved him regardless." Lina smiled, thinking about it. She had had that fight with Evan, many times – Evan knew well what she thought of him, and she called him a coward at least once a week when she was at home. He had always said that a coward he might be, but his cowardice gave his love and his child the roof over their heads, the clothes on their backs, and safety. Evan was an idiot.

He had been an idiot, she corrected herself mentally. Evan was dead.

Christie laughed, the sound odd in the grim silence. "Aldon is… a lot like him."

Lina didn't reply for a moment, leaning back and thinking about it. In some ways, Aldon was very much like Evan, and Lina had thought they were cut from the same cloth almost his entire life. Aldon had the same calculating mind, at least for business and politics, and the same heart. But sometime in his late teenage years, Aldon had changed.

"In some ways," Lina agreed thoughtfully, "but on the whole, not at all. Aldon has a disturbing streak of recklessness that Evan never showed."

Christie laughed again, this one a little lighter. "He gets that from you, I guess."

"Not sure how." Lina snorted, but she smiled nonetheless. "This is the first time he's seen me as a Stormwing. No, his recklessness is all his own, though I don't know where he got it. Historically, he has always preferred to overthink things and take no action rather than acted without thinking."

Christie made a small noise of agreement, or maybe it was disagreement. Lina couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter. Aldon was still alive, just a few floors above them, so what he would become wasn't yet fixed. Until people died, they were always capable of change. Her responsibility was to ensure that Aldon stayed alive to change through the turbulent months or years to come.

"Bed," she said firmly, standing up and offering a hand to Christie. "Come on – it's past four, and I need a few hours of sleep where I can get them. Alastor Moody is keeping a watch."

Christie stood up, slowly and a little weakly, and Lina led her to Evan's old bedroom without comment and tucked her into his expansive bed. She paused for a moment on her way out, wondering if Christie wanted her to stay, but a glance back showed her that the other woman had rolled over, her back to the door, curling into a small, hurt ball.

Lina turned away, sighing, and walked out to settle onto the sofa in Evan's old private parlour. It was hard, too firm, but she had slept on worse.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

XXX

_AN: And here we go again, a new beginning! If you've followed this long, congratulations - there are so few of you left :O. Thanks to meek_bookworm, amazing beta-reader that I definitely work far too hard. Comments very much appreciated - reviews are fodder for more writing, you know._


	2. Chapter 2

Emotions were malleable.

Pansy knew this. She had known this for a long time. When she was sad, she could turn sadness to anger, or anger to bitterness, or bitterness to resignation, with enough effort. Sometimes, she translated boredom and ennui to contentment, or pleasure, or even happiness, with the right combination of thoughts. The thoughts only had to be believable, a reaction that someone, somewhere, could find plausible – how someone _could_ feel, as opposed to how she did feel.

She played with her reactions. Pansy hadn't liked being the sharp child, the one who saw the undercurrents of the world around her, so she changed. She presented herself in a certain way to the public, made herself seem good and sweet and kind, with just a little flash of intelligence here and there, and people liked her for it. People _liked_ her for it, and after awhile, it became second nature. Taking others in, toying with others, manipulating people for her own agenda was endlessly entertaining, an ever-changing game of social etiquette and control that she played with wit and skill.

The game changed her, too. Sometimes, Pansy felt like she _became_ the people that she was playing. Pansy could be the dutiful daughter of House Parkinson, she could be the kind and generous best friend to Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, she could be the sharply intelligent and witty dueller in the Duelling Club. She was all of these things, at some point or another. Harry had even commented on it, when she confessed her secret to her closest friends in her third year: her personality was a little more malleable than most, and that was perfectly fine.

That malleability would be what saved her.

The night of the coup, Pansy simply hadn't wanted to be afraid. Fear was a paralytic – fear would have stopped her from doing what needed to be done. It was better to be angry, so Pansy had made herself angry. She had focused on how slow Draco had been, though she knew he was probably overwhelmed with the emotions of everyone around him. She had blamed him and the Malfoys and their weak wards for their predicament, though she knew there was likely more to it. She had raged silently at everyone there for failing to defend her, though they hadn't even managed to defend themselves. She had pulled at anything and everything she had to turn fear into anger, because she hadn't wanted to be afraid.

It had worked. It had worked, and she had been _furious_, and her fury was enough for her to swipe a wand from an unsuspecting wizard's pocket as he pulled her forward to stand in a line, Draco beside her. Then, she had a wand, and when they were dragged forward she had raged at everyone behind her for their cowardice, against Lord Selwyn and Master Black and Edmund Rookwood and every other person who had watched the selection in silence and fear.

Pansy wasn't them. Pansy wasn't scared, because every grain of fear she had was instantly turned to incandescent rage. She would show these people what bravery looked like, she had decided, and she would go out fighting rather than being tortured to death. She was only deciding her plan of attack when she had overheard Lady Rosier's muttering.

"A diversion," she was saying, looking around, her sharp eyes covering the room, though her voice was so soft Pansy hadn't even been sure she had heard it at first. "If I just had a bit more of a diversion…"

"What for?" Pansy had asked, and then her insane, suicidal plan had become something else: a way to get her mother and Draco _out_. Her mother, because someone needed to protect the magical creatures that called the Parkinson Estate home, and Draco, because after Harry left, it was her and Draco, Draco and her, and she had too many memories of his fierce and stubborn pride, his casual kindnesses, his willingness to put himself forward for people he barely knew. She loved him; as a friend only, but she loved him, and if she could only pick two, then it would be her mother and Draco. She had taken a minute, five minutes, to revise her plan, to find a new Pansy to be, and then she had convinced herself that it was _true._

She was Pansy Parkinson, noble girl who wanted to study a Mastery in Arithmancy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to wait on marriage and children, who had never wanted her betrothal to Draco Malfoy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to make a mark on politics in her own way, and she was Pansy Parkinson, a noble girl who hated being forced into a mold she didn't belong in. She was Pansy Parkinson, she was furious, and she had _had enough_.

Voldemort was not so different from her, was he? He was non-noble, and he had wiped away the whole noble edifice with one wave of his hand. He wanted power, and so too did Pansy. But this Pansy wanted her _own_ power, not the weak power she had held previously as the Parkinson Heiress, not a power tied in tight legal contracts that she had had no voice in negotiating, not a power she wielded only through her simpering and smiles, not a power that others tried to control through the chains of duty. Noble girls were even less free than the non-nobles, and Voldemort would see that. Pansy would make him see it.

She had picked her moment, then she had lunged forward, out of the group of picked examples, and then she had murdered Lucius Malfoy in cold blood. She hadn't even cared about it, then, because for this Pansy, Lucius Malfoy had become only one of the men controlling her destiny, and she wanted him dead. This Pansy had been so angry about her betrothal for months, so enraged by her lack of options, and Voldemort would not take her revenge from her. So she had killed the former Lord Malfoy, and he had exploded into nothingness, and in the breath of silence and shock, she had dredged up her most beautiful curtsey for Voldemort.

She rewrote herself. In a few minutes, with the ease of long practice, she became a different Pansy, one with a slightly different worldview, a slightly different history, and very different motivations. This Pansy had never made a trade for her mother or Draco's security, because this Pansy didn't need any other motive – she hated Lucius Malfoy enough already to act. It would never have occurred to this Pansy to trade anything for anyone's safety, because this Pansy was too angry, and this Pansy didn't give two shits about anything or anyone but her own revenge. For this Pansy, the trade simply hadn't happened, because it was inconsistent with her personality.

"My deepest apologies, my lord," she had said, her voice cold in uncaring, and she had drawn the entire room's attention. That was where this Pansy belonged, in the spotlight in her own right, not an accessory to someone else. "You and I, we are more alike than you think."

The Lady Rosier's escape had been a problem. It had nearly blown her entire plan to join Voldemort. The explosions went off, and Pansy had dropped to the floor, shielding her head with her arms and her stolen wand. When the dust had cleared, Lady Rosier was gone, her father was dead on the floor, and Voldemort was furious.

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this," he had hissed at her, and his accent shifted ever so slightly. The emphasis went on the last word, and he sounded almost like the snake that was his Patronus.

"If I had anything to do with it, I assure you that it would have been better planned," she had retaliated, from the floor, meeting his eyes as she said it. Had she planned it, the blasts would have come _with _her murder of Lucius Malfoy, not seconds afterwards. Had she planned it, the blasts would have come with nothing at all, because everyone's attention had been on Lucius Malfoy anyway. "Your witches and wizards are terribly trained, which is no surprise given who you have at your disposal. The Lestranges are notoriously unstable, and Crabbe and Goyle? I see them back there, and there are _trolls_ more intelligent than those family lines."

There had been a pause, and it was in that moment that Pansy, the Pansy that had slipped beneath the surface and was lying far below, silent and watching, knew. Voldemort was a Legilimens, a powerful one, and he relied heavily on his Legilimency as another sense. He had believed her, because her thoughts didn't lie to him, because he looked at her and he saw the Pansy that she had become.

"You need me," she had said then, looking into his eyes and throwing her knowledge, a lifetime of skill at social manipulation, into his head. She was a noble, so she knew all of Society. She knew all the people that Voldemort would need to win to his side, she was well-liked by all the former nobility, and she knew how to bring them to his side. And all she wanted in return was exactly what he had promised his followers: a future she could make her own, instead of being determined by a circumstance of her birth.

Voldemort could kill everyone who opposed him, but that would destroy Wizarding Britain's population. It was far easier to win everyone to his side, to turn all society into his dream world. How else would he have people to staff the restaurants or stores in Diagon Alley? How else would he delegate the tasks that he did not want to do personally, those political things that would not be handled well by his current followers? How else would he leave his legacy?

What world did he want to create?

She had smiled, watching as Voldemort, young as he was, process her thoughts. Some of his people had gone after the escaped group, but they soon came back, bloodier than they were before. She had taken a look at them, contemptuous: Crabbe had been in that group, Rodolphus Lestrange, and a wizard that she didn't know. Not noble. She wasn't surprised at their failure, because Crabbe was a fool and Rodolphus Lestrange was entirely controlled by his mad wife. Voldemort had glanced at them, his heavy brows furrowing in disapproval, before dismissing them and turning back to Pansy with a very different consideration.

Pansy knew that look. It was one that many men had given her during her disastrous arranged marriage meetings, to wizards who were on the whole undeserving of her. It was a slow look, one that started with her face, considering her light blue eyes, pert nose, the sprinkle of freckles over her cheeks. Voldemort studied her golden hair which she pulled over her shoulder and ran her fingers through, showing how fine the light strands were. She had smiled, a little coquettish, as he kept looking. His gaze had dropped, lower, as he considered her chest for a long moment, and then her hips, her bottom, her legs.

He had said nothing. He didn't need to say anything. And this Pansy…

This Pansy would consider it. Voldemort was a handsome man, dark hair curling slightly over his forehead, blue eyes so dark they were almost black. He was tall, with strong shoulders, and magical power rolled off him in waves. This Pansy did not care about concepts like _purity_, so important if she was playing the noble game, and that world was dead anyway. This Pansy controlled her own body, and she decided to whom she wanted to give her favours.

She had glanced at the survivors of the coup. Edmund was staring at her, pale, and Alice was sobbing. Based on the few new cuts and bruises, more than one of the survivors had tried to make a run for it with Lady Rosier, but their guards had been warier and none of them had wands. They had gotten precisely nowhere, a few more injuries notwithstanding. Pathetic.

"My lord, if you do not mind my recommendations, I suggest we simply keep this lot prisoner," Pansy had said, waving one hand towards them. "They've lost enough tonight, and this was most of the inner circle of the SOW Party. Were you to make examples of them, there would be none left to carry the news to the public. They are better alive, consolidating your power for you, than dead. You can always kill them later if they step out of line, or I shall do it for you."

Voldemort had looked at her, then he had looked back at the small, lonely looking group of survivors. Between the deaths in the coup and those who had escaped, more than half the group was gone, and most of them were dead. A bare eight people remained.

"And how do you propose that we handle the escape?" Voldemort had asked, sharp, his dark eyes still suspicious. "We will look weak, having let them escape."

Despite his tone, he had gotten her thoughts, and he knew that she spoke sense. There was no point in examples if no one was there to see it.

"We rewrite it," she had said, taking a few steps forward and reaching out one hand to touch his arm. The cloth of his robe was rough, and there were better materials for someone such as him. "They escaped in the first attack, not afterwards. And we set up the _Daily_ _Prophet_ again, and we crucify them in public opinion. The Malfoys were ranking members of the previous administration – there are a dozen corruption charges we can lay against them. Lady Rosier, too, concealed the origins of her halfblood son to give him the benefits of bring a pureblood – that is certainly a conspiracy to commit blood identity theft charge. Lady Parkinson, well."

Pansy shrugged, her face settling into an expression of disgust. "She is my mother, and I care for her as any daughter does, but she will do nothing. My mother belonged in the old world, relying on my father for everything. She will hole up on the Parkinson Estate and will cry for the next three years, instead of moving on. She is not a priority."

Voldemort had looked in her eyes, then, and Pansy knew that he read the truth in her mind. And Pansy was smoking in anger, and this new world was a better place for her than the old one. She looked forward to it, to standing by Voldemort's side, surveying a world where the fact that she was a noble _woman_ didn't matter.

"Very well," Voldemort had said then, abrupt, as he had turned to his followers. "We move here, and we hold this place against the Malfoys. And tomorrow, we shall revisit these issues, and plan for a greater world. And you, Parkinson…"

Pansy's nose had screwed up in disgust. "Please, my lord. Pansy will do."

"A childish nickname," Voldemort had commented, but Pansy shook her head.

"It is what others have called me my whole life, so it is what I have come to know," she had said, dismissive. Pandora was more mature, but she had always been given a diminutive – Pansy, Pan, Pans. She cared not what others called her, and it had been advantageous to use a diminutive in the old world.

"Pandora is a lovely name," Voldemort had replied, reading her thoughts. "What is the point of having a lovely name if no one uses it?"

Pansy had smiled, then. "What point, indeed?"

It had taken her a good two hours to reverse what she had done to herself in her private suite of rooms, two terrifying, shaking hours of correcting her own thinking. Turning herself into someone else had been easy, almost too easy, but undoing it was something else entirely, and she had fumbled with her wand for far too long to cast her Patronus in one of the Malfoy guest suites.

The other Pansy had wanted Narcissa's rooms. It had felt good to demand her rooms, to take that place, but Narcissa didn't have her own bedroom. The other Pansy had been disappointed, throwing a minor fit over it, before she had scoffed and went to find her own accommodations.

This Pansy would have preferred Draco's rooms, so that she could be grateful he had made it out, but it hadn't even occurred to the other Pansy. It disgusted the other Pansy, so there she was, in a guest bedroom, shaking herself to pieces and putting herself back together. She had murdered Lucius Malfoy. She had murdered Lucius Malfoy. _She had murdered Lucius Malfoy._

She was still alive, and Voldemort believed her. Voldemort believed her because she _was_ that other Pansy, because _that_ Pansy's thoughts and feelings and beliefs were every bit as valid as her thoughts, her feelings and her beliefs now. All she could do was try to pull something good out of this, and off her Patronus had gone to Aldon, demanding immunity in exchange for information.

And here she was now, ready to walk out of her new suite of rooms, to rejoin Voldemort and to help him with his takeover of Wizarding Britain.

She shut her eyes, a part of her wishing her gamble hadn't paid off, that Voldemort _hadn't _believed her, and had simply murdered her. But it had, and he _had_ believed her, and now there was no way out but through.

She took a deep breath, finding the other Pansy.

She was Pansy Parkinson, noble girl who wanted to study a Mastery in Arithmancy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to wait on marriage and children, who had never wanted her betrothal to Draco Malfoy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to make a mark on politics in her own way, and she was Pansy Parkinson, a noble girl who hated being forced into a mold she didn't belong in.

She was Pandora Parkinson, and she was one of Voldemort's followers.

She walked out of her suite of rooms.

XXX

Francesca stepped off the plane at Heathrow International Airport, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Archie had the details of her flight, which she had provided before the end of the school term, and she had sent a confirmation by email to him a few nights before. Archie had gotten back to her, saying that she should stay home in America, because the government had fallen, but she had ignored it. The plane tickets were already bought, Blake & Associates was in Britain, and her plans were made, so her reply simply reiterated her arrival information. He had written last night, a short email saying only that someone would be waiting to meet her.

She looked around, anxious. John wasn't with her this time – his plans this time were to go direct to Germany, and he would stop off in Britain on his way home – and his lack of presence meant her anxiety was higher than usual.

Someone would come and meet her, she told herself firmly. Archie had said so, and she shouldn't worry. People couldn't get to the gates anyway without going through security, and the movies that showed people waiting at the gates were entirely fiction. Especially at an airport the size of Heathrow, where security was tight, there was no way anyone could possibly meet her before the baggage claim, at the earliest. And she didn't have any baggage at the baggage claim, because she always shrank her bags to be the size of a carry-on to keep the airline from losing her things.

Her stomach hurt. But she wasn't anywhere near the baggage claim yet, so there was no need for her to worry. Archie had said someone would be there to get her, though he hadn't told her who. Archie had never lied to her except for the one time, in first year. He wouldn't lie to her now, and she wasn't sure if he had a truly deceitful bone in his body. The Archie Black that she had come to know over the past year or so was no different than Harry Potter had been, other than his name and face. And at no time had he ever been _malicious_.

He said someone would be there to pick her up, so someone would be there to pick her up. She just wished he had told her who, or where, so that she didn't have to fret about being forgotten.

The baggage claim was crowded, a hundred and fifty people milling about the huge, metal conveyor belt in wait for their luggage. The belt hadn't even started moving yet, but people were already standing about, pushing for the prime spots to watch as the bags started coming down. It was too crowded – far too crowded, and she looked around for a familiar face.

There was none, and her stomach roiled, hurting.

She couldn't stay here. It was too crowded. Maybe this would be one of those airports where she had to pass through another security check before people could meet her, so she headed out of baggage claim. And it wouldn't matter if she never found them, she reminded herself – she had done this before. She knew where the Underground was, she could get to Grimmauld Place by herself if she needed. There was no need to be anxious.

It didn't work. She was still anxious.

"Francesca!" She heard someone calling her name, and she turned around to see a familiar face waving at her through a crowd of people. She smiled, a little hesitant – why was Neal Queenscove meeting her? Not that she didn't like Neal, he had always been a good friend, but she had expected Archie, or maybe Sirius or Remus.

"Neal," she said, and then she saw the person standing beside him, looking stiff and proper in a matte black waistcoat, with a white collared shirt and navy blue tie. He looked like a butler, she thought, or maybe a waiter in a fancy restaurant. It took her a minute to find her words, and her voice, when it came out, was soft, uncertain. "Aldon."

"Francesca," Aldon replied, looking at the ground awkwardly. "Er – welcome back to Britain."

Francesca nodded, a little stiff, then turned her attention to Neal. "Any, um, reason you are here to meet me? And not, um, Archie? Or Sirius?"

Neal exchanged a look with Aldon, who was still looking awkward, but took over the conversation. He glanced around carefully, then lowered his voice. "Things have changed in Britain, Francesca. Archie isn't even minimally trained in defense, and in these circumstances it's best he stay behind wards."

"And the two of you are any better?" Francesca asked, not sure if she should be laughing or not. "I mean – you, of course, but Aldon… And this is No-Maj Britain."

Aldon coughed a little and made a tapping motion with his finger on one side. Francesca didn't see anything there, but she heard the small, metallic click and saw the way that his shoulders shifted, as if there was something restricting his movement. Francesca had never seen a gun for herself, but she had seen enough television shows. Aldon was carrying a concealed handgun.

"We need to talk – let's get to Queenscove." Neal grinned, though there was an edge to his smile, and his eyes roved around the airport carefully. "What spells are you carrying, just in case?"

Francesca blinked, taken aback. She reached to touch the small stack of spells under her bra strap nervously, thinking about it. "Three shield spells, a speed spell, a disarming charm – all charged. And I can always call on lightning."

Neal nodded, a little distracted, then he fished in his pocked for piece of parchment and handed it to her. It was a runic map, which would lead her to a specified location – something Chinese paper-mages used instead of a _Point Me_ spell. "Good. Keep those handy. If anything goes down, get to Queenscove, all right? Stick to No-Maj routes as much as possible – train north, take the local, the stop is Gretna Green. The paper is spelled to lead you there, it's most of day's hike south. Floo isn't reliable these days – or rather, we don't know how reliable it might be. Better safe than sorry."

Francesca paused, then she nodded. "Oh – okay. Um, how will we get there now?"

"We'll Apparate, soon as we get clear of the airport," Neal replied, turning to scan around. "Let's take the Underground, get off in a few stations. There's a park with some woodland we can Apparate from."

"I can take your trunk," Aldon said, reaching out to take it with a note of hesitation. He wasn't looking at her, focusing on the crowds, on her luggage, on anything but her. "Here. Allow me."

Francesca let him take her case from her without much argument, though she could have managed it herself. She didn't argue – she wasn't sure what there was to say. Instead, she simply followed Neal and Aldon to the London Underground connection, onto the train, and took Neal's arm for Side-Along Apparition to Queenscove.

"It's a bit of a walk," Neal said, crossing over an invisible line in the ground with a sigh of relief. "An hour normally, but Al showed me a trick to mess with the distances, so I can cut it to fifteen minutes. Can't believe he didn't show me it earlier, now I'm making everyone Apparate in if I can."

Francesca looked between Neal and Aldon for a minute, following closely behind. Al? Aldon hated it when his name was shortened. He had complained at length about Archie doing it, and Francesca had confided that she didn't care that much for her own nickname, which Archie and John had foisted on her in first year. She had just learned to deal with it, though fortunately Hermione and everyone else stuck to her preferred full name.

"I suppose he's earned the right to call me whatever he wants," Aldon murmured quietly to her, before he glanced back at Neal. "Neal, I did not know manipulating the dimensions of the grounds was possible until I was in control of Rosier Place. My apologies."

That didn't explain anything, but despite the continuing ache in her stomach, which crossing into Queenscove lands had barely helped, Francesca's curiosity was piqued. Aldon was in control of Rosier Place?

The Disillusionment Charm on Aldon's shoulder harness had faded when they crossed into Queenscove, giving her a glimpse of his handgun. Francesca had never seen a handgun, not in real life, but it looked real and deadly and completely alien against Aldon's clothes. And when had Aldon, who still treated everything No-Maj with an odd mix of practicality and bemused surprise, learned how to use a gun?

He seemed very different now – still awkward, and he had always been stiff and formal, but he was more authoritative. His bearing was straight, almost regal, very controlled. He had a confidence about himself that wasn't quite there before, as if before he had been showboating but now it was genuine. He smiled, watching as Neal showed off his many defensive fortifications. Francesca wasn't really listening to Neal, more preoccupied watching Aldon.

He was still wildly handsome. She wasn't surprised. But he was sharp, hard, and the new bearing he had didn't help. Fals had been gentle, his duelling record notwithstanding, and she didn't think Aldon knew how to be gentle.

She turned to look at Queenscove, a picture-perfect medieval keep set on a cliff by the sea, marvelling at its beauty. She had been to Queenscove before, of course, but she had always Flooed in as opposed to walking. The perspective from outside the walls was stunning: two sets of tall, outer walls, with the keep peeking out on top. She could smell the sea on the air, salt and brine, and hear the slap of the waves against the cliffs, and if she looked out the windows of her favourite solar, she knew that she would see the white crests of foam crusting the waves.

Neal settled her in his kitchens, warm and bright, and began brewing a pot of tea. One of his house-elves, in a neat tea towel pressed with the Queenscove crest, interrupted him and shooed him away before bringing the ceramic pot and four tiny teacups to the table for them. Francesca recognized the scent of oolong – plain Chinese restaurant tea.

"So – what is this about, then?" she asked, a little abrupt as she reached for the pot. It was homey, reminding her of weekends at dim sum, soothing even if it didn't taste that good. "The guard, the gun…"

"Lord Riddle fell, and so did the Ministry," Neal replied, his voice low and serious. "There was a coup – Voldemort attacked Malfoy Manor and the Ministry the day that everyone came home from school. He killed Riddle, and the Minister of Magic."

"My father also died in the assault," Aldon replied, his gaze fixed on the tea set, on Francesca's hands handling the small cups. His voice was quiet, without inflection. "Which leaves me as the Lord Rosier."

Francesca studied him for a moment. He hadn't been close to his father, she knew that from their many discussions by comm orb, but she was still surprised by how dispassionate he sounded. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Shockingly, so am I." Aldon favoured her with an awkward half-smile. "We weren't close, as you know, but I can't say I wasn't sorry to hear it."

Neal snorted, reaching for one of the teacups. "You're perfectly capable of talking like you didn't walk out of the eighteenth century, Al, so how about you do that? English is like my third language, so if you don't talk like a normal person I won't understand you."

Aldon's retort was in French, which Francesca didn't understand, but Neal laughed.

"But…" she cut in, frowning. "Archie already told me all this. How does – I'm not sure…"

"Well, we're not entirely sure _what_ is happening, for the moment." Neal turned back to look at her with a grimace, and Francesca ignored the fact that he wasn't really answering the question she had wanted to ask. "I mean – the Ministry has continued running without the Minister, who is supposedly off sick."

"They are aiming for a soft entry," Aldon added, turning away to study one of Neal's tapestries. Considering most of Neal's tapestries contained an image of someone who looked very much like Neal doing daring feats of chivalry, Francesca suspected that he wasn't really looking at them so much as avoiding looking at her. "A quiet takeover of the Ministry, which handles most of the operational matters in Wizarding Britain. Then, my source indicates that he will be aiming for a seamless transition – an announcement through the restarted _Daily Prophet_, corruption charges against members of the previous administration, propaganda to advocate for the change." He paused. "_Bridge _probably didn't help with that."

"For now, we actually don't know what's safe or not," Neal admitted with a pained shrug. "We blew news of the coup in _Bridge_ last week, but you know… who knows how it's being taken? For a lot of people, it just… sounds unbelievable. Lord Riddle had fully entrenched himself in Wizarding British politics over the last half-century, and many people look to other highly ranked noble families for truth otherwise – the Malfoys, the Parkinsons. They're either dead or in hiding now."

"I am aware that Archie sent you an email with the information," Aldon interrupted, abrupt and avoiding her eyes. "But I worry that he failed to communicate the seriousness of this situation. In the circumstances, it may be best for you to return to America. I know it was not in your plans, but we can continue to work on the ACD through the communication orb, and of course Blake & Associates will continue to supervise your last two years of schooling. Just – you can go home, attend Muggle high school. It'll be safer for you, Francesca."

Francesca's jaw dropped. Go home for _Muggle high school? _Being sent home like a child? "But—"

"He is right," Neal added, purposely gentle, and Francesca felt another flare of anger. "If not home, we can make other arrangements. My brother Will would help, you're almost family."

No. Francesca had it planned, and she was barely a witch anyway. She was more No-Maj than witch, and she didn't even have a wand. Taking her away from her funders would only delay progress on the ACD, and whatever the situation, she didn't think anyone would be looking too closely for her. She had taken precautions, and she was a citizen of Wizarding America, not Wizarding Britain. And the government, or what was left of it, didn't even know she was _here_, not like Archie, or Hermione, or anyone else who took the school flight.

"Archie and Hermione aren't – aren't leaving," she stuttered, stumbling a little through her words. "And the Ministry, if they still exist – they don't know I'm here. I travelled here only through No-Maj means, so they don't have a record of my entry. They can't track my wand, because I don't have one, and – and progress on the ACD will be a lot slower of I'm in America. That's not – that's not reasonable."

Neal exchanged a look with Aldon, and Aldon shook his head. "It's really – Francesca, the situation really has changed. It's a lot more dangerous for all of us now, and you should really—"

"No." Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not leaving. You aren't leaving. Archie isn't leaving. Hermione isn't – isn't leaving. My _research_ is here. I'll – I'll follow whatever security measures you want, but I'm not leaving. I told Archie that, in my email."

There was an awkward silence. Neal sighed and leaned back in his chair, exchanging another look with Aldon, but Francesca kept her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at them both. She wasn't going, it was _ridiculous_ for her to have to go when she had everything planned. Everything was _planned_, she had taken precautions, and she was _barely_ a witch. Everyone said so, all the time. No one would care about her.

"There are still a million things that need to be done before we can even discuss security measures," Aldon said finally, turning back to studying Neal's tapestries with a slight frown, and she heard Neal sigh. She relaxed, reaching cautiously for her cup of tea, while Aldon continued. "Before, we could rely on the Ministry to at least put up a defense; now, the Ministry is in the enemy's control. There is no one else. We need to decide who to send to the ICW to raise the alarm, we need to set up logistical and refugee routes, we need to consolidate with what allies we can get and determine what resources we have, we need to decide how to handle our information flow, we need to get someone into the Floo Regulatory Authority—"

"Shut up, Al." Neal smiled pleasantly, though there was something a little unsettling about that smile. "She doesn't care about the intricacies of war. If she's decided to stay, then you may as well move on to what you need to tell her. You told me to hold you to it, so get on with it."

There was an awkward silence, and Francesca's hands on her cup of tea tightened, foreboding. Something that Aldon needed to tell her? It couldn't be good. And they didn't need to explain all of this at Queenscove. Grimmauld Place would have been just as good. "What is it?"

Aldon sighed and looked at her, golden eyes apologetic. "At the Ministry Unity Ball, I… made a critical miscalculation."

Neal snorted. "A _critical miscalculation, _is it? You fucked up. Call it what it is, Aldon, you fucked right up. You done fucked up. I don't even have words for how badly you fucked up, and I speak three languages."

Aldon grimaced, but to Francesca's surprise, he didn't call Neal out for his language. Not that Francesca hadn't heard it all before, between John and Tina, but Aldon thought it was crass. The irony, though, was that according to John, Aldon swore quite a lot in his own head. She suspected it was probably something to with her specifically – for some reason, Aldon didn't think she should hear it.

And it was an odd change of topic. She didn't see what the Ministry Unity Ball had to do with the war, other than the attack which had happened there, but neither she nor Aldon had been present for the attack.

"I – do you need me to remind you about, er, my words that night?" Aldon was making a concerted effort to keep eye contact with her, but she could see he was fighting his instinct to look away. "I – er – I'm sure I don't, but—"

"You don't." Francesca's voice dropped several degrees, cool. Her voice was high-pitched enough that it would never be _icy_, but she could try. "I would – I want to forget about that night. I don't think we need to talk about it."

"Well, er, unfortunately, we can't." Aldon sighed, leaning forward and looking at her very seriously. "Or, er, you can if you like and if you like you can certainly do so, but there are things you should know before you make that decision. Er, so, the oath I made—"

"An _oath_," Francesca interrupted, her hands shaking a little. She set down her teacup, and Aldon reached across the table hesitantly, but she pulled her hands away to cross them over her chest again. "Is – that is what we are calling it?"

"Yes, my _oath_," Aldon bit back, and Francesca started. He had never taken that tone with her before. He caught her look and flinched, then softened his voice before continuing. "Because that is what it was, Francesca, a binding oath. Binding on me, but not on you – you are as free as you ever were, but I am not."

Francesca froze, her mind scrambling to remember the precise words that Aldon had used, some six months ago. _Defend you with my wand, shield you with my name, anything I have or shall ever have is yours._ A numb feeling started at the crown of her head, dribbling down her body, until it reached her toes.

"I – you…" She choked out, caught between panic and anger. She didn't know what to say, and she saw Neal Summoning a Calming Draught. He offered it to her, but she shook her head, pushing herself away from the table to lean over and just breathe for a few minutes.

How could he? The thrill of the moment, or had he just assumed she would go along with it? Yes, they had just learned that their feelings were reciprocated that night, but hadn't she said so many times that very night, _no_? It was too early, she had told him. Had he thought that proposing as a grand public gesture would make a difference? Had he thought Francesca's response would be different with a thousand people watching them?

Worse still, Francesca knew that without John's warning, she might well have said yes. Not because she would have meant it, but because she wouldn't have wanted to embarrass him in front of a thousand people and because she would have assumed she could quietly change her answer later. She had always hated those people who proposed to their girlfriends on national television, or at baseball games with posters and gleeful expressions – how could _anyone_ say no when under the eyes of so many strangers? Proposals like that weren't about the person being proposed to, but were a show for the proposer. If the answer was no, everyone immediately felt sorry for them – regardless of the circumstances of the refusal. No one would listen to the person who said no, it would become all about the poor person who had put his heart out there and had been refused.

She took a few more breaths, trying to process his words. He had said that she was as free as she ever was, and she remembered other vague phrasings from the oath itself. _A request only with no bearing on my oath_. It didn't sound like whatever he had done had had any effect on her, only on him. He was now sworn to her support and defense, but she… there didn't seem to be anything she had promised.

It would have been so romantic in a book.

"So – so what does that mean?" She said eventually, looking up, carefully keeping her voice even, even if she was trembling in shock and anger.

"Well, er, it means I'm sworn to your defense," Aldon replied, a light stain of pink brushing his cheeks. He was normally pale-skinned, so it showed. "If you are close enough to me physically, my magic has some freedom to act in your defense if you are in danger, without my active participation. Socially, it – well, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, but you would have been considered noble by class, with all the rights and advantages that entails. And, er, my property is yours, so, er, you are now joint owner of Rosier Place. And of the Rosier bank accounts, and my personal accounts as well. The old oaths are quite, er, literal."

Francesca reminded herself to breathe as she bent over again, head almost on her knees. Why, why, _why_ would Aldon do this? It was so _stupid_, and even if Francesca didn't have any _obligations_ from it, she didn't want him tied to her like this. She didn't want to create duties for someone else, she didn't want Aldon's manor or his money.

She knew why he had done it though. Archie had explained, and she knew that Aldon was, in his own way, probably quite as deeply romantic as her. In the world he came from, this was the most romantic thing he could think of doing – pledging all of himself to her without expectation of reply.

There was a tap on her shoulder, and she glanced up to see Neal, offering her a fresh teacup. She accepted it and drank it in three huge gulps, burning her tongue as she did it.

"How – how do I stop it?" She asked, sitting up and setting the teacup on the table with a very final _clink_. "I don't want this. I don't want your protection, or your nobility, or your property. I don't want to hold you to any of it."

"You may, er, release me from my oath any time." Aldon's eyebrows pinched together, just slightly, worried. "But given the circumstances, and since you are staying, I recommend that you don't. You see, er, aside from the protection my oath provides you, Blake & Associates has relocated to Rosier Place for the time being – or, rather, most of the firm has temporarily relocated to Wizarding France with the exception of the ACD unit which is at Rosier Place. There are defensive applications to the ACD; if we can expand the range of magical frequencies we can support, we can build ACDs for and train people to use them. It may prove to be a powerful defensive edge…"

"And?" Ignoring his statement about the _protection _he could provide her, Francesca didn't see where he was going with this. What did his oaths have to do with Rosier Place or with the ACD, or even with the wider war? Aldon was normally much better at structuring his thoughts. "So?"

Aldon sighed heavily, and his bright eyes were very serious when he looked at her. "Francesca, from a broader perspective, you are now the joint owner of Rosier Place, and should I die _you_ will hold the manor – and since it's where Blake & Associates and the ACD unit is presently based, it's a place we can ill afford to lose. After the war, if you would like, release me – but for the moment, it is safer for you, and for all of us if you decide keep it. Please."

Francesca looked down, into her cup of tea. She didn't like it – she was tired of being _protected, _she was tired of guard dog shifts at school and Aldon's _protection _sounded rather vague. Gun or not, she found it impossible to believe that he could have become an excellent dueller in only six months. His other point, however, keeping the oath in place as a failsafe in the context of the wider war, that made more sense. She didn't have to like it, but losing the manor if Aldon died, if her entire team and their research was there, was not acceptable. She briefly considered asking to move the whole unit abroad, but then she realized that Aldon would never leave Wizarding Britain. And if he didn't, neither would Christie.

"I don't have to do anything, though?" she asked, seeking confirmation, leaning forward to stare at Aldon. "This … your oath, it doesn't require anything of me. It doesn't hold me back, right?"

"That's correct." Aldon nodded, a quick, sharp movement that still somehow betrayed a sense of disappointment. "There is nothing you need to do."

Francesca blew out a breath. "Fine." She paused. "So… is that everything?"

Aldon hesitated, and she glared at him.

"It's about where you'll be staying," he said, words quick as he rushed to get them out. "I know you were going to stay at Grimmauld Place, but Grimmauld Place isn't secure – Master Black was among those captured in the coup, and he is a Master of Ward Construction as well as a Black. The Lord Black can't ward him out fully. In the circumstances, I am, er, inviting you to stay at Rosier Place."

Francesca frowned, uncomfortable, then she reached for the pot of tea, pouring herself another tiny cup. She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to turn down the invitation, but Aldon wasn't finished.

"As I said, my oath will, er, provide you some protection if I am near, so it will be more effective if you stay with me. My manor is large, and as I said I'm also hosting the ACD team as well as several other people currently, and your room in the guest wing will be on the opposite side of the manor from the family quarters, so – so I hope you wouldn't be too uncomfortable." Aldon inclined his head a little. "But if – if that is too uncomfortable, Neal will host you here, at Queenscove. We could set up a Portkey, or we could Apparate you between."

But that wouldn't be very convenient, Francesca realized. With Floo out of the picture at least temporarily, both the Portkey and Apparition would be riskier and would be taxing on Neal and Aldon at a time when they couldn't afford it. Neither a Portkey nor Apparition would put her within the wards – she would be crossing into unsafe, unwarded space, if only temporarily. Then, she would either have to hike the hour at Queenscove, or however long it was at Rosier Place, or she would need to rely on Neal or Aldon to be there to alter the distances for her so that she could save time. Either way, she would lose time that would be better spent working on the ACD.

And she had said that she would follow any security measures put in place for her, too. She didn't want to give them any reason to return to insisting that she return to America.

"Rosier Place is … large?" she repeated. "How large, exactly?"

Aldon shrugged, looking away. "As large as it needs to be. The guest wing in particular creates rooms as necessary, but our main building is quite public. There are several reception parlours and formal sitting rooms, a formal dining room, a great hall, a grand ballroom… it isn't a home, Francesca, so much as it is a hall."

"I… see," Francesca said, and despite herself she felt a little sorry for him. Aldon had grown up at Rosier Place, but he didn't seem to have any fond memories of it. He hadn't spoken about it the way he had spoken about Hogwarts, or even about Christie's penthouse – in fact, he had said little about it at all. And now he was in possession of his ancestral manor, and as much prestige and power as that might have brought him, she didn't think it made him happy.

"It's up to you, Francesca." Aldon sighed, reaching for his own cup of tea – he had barely touched his, so it had to be cold by now.

Francesca nodded, thinking it over. It hadn't been in the plans, and she didn't think she would be very comfortable at Rosier Place, but at the same time, it did seem to be best for everyone. And it wasn't as if she wouldn't be seeing Aldon nearly every day anyway – he was a part of the ACD team, and the entire ACD team was also at Rosier Place, he said. The way he talked about Rosier Place made it sound more like a hotel, almost. She could cope with that, she thought. It would be like staying at a hotel, or a bed and breakfast, and Aldon would be on the other side of building.

"Okay," she said. "Rosier Place, then. If it seems best for everyone."

"Thank you." Aldon shut his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. "I – I assure you, I will keep things professional, Francesca."

"We're work colleagues. I'll hold you to it."

Rosier Place was nothing like Francesca had imagined. It was not a medieval fortress, as Queenscove was, but a huge mansion clearly built after a time when outer walls were necessary. The lawns were smooth, rolling, and there was wide, gravel drive leading up to the doors. It looked like something that would be on a movie set for an adaptation of _Pride and Prejudice_, with additional flashes of magic.

Aldon showed her around his manor with a bland, perfunctory attitude that told Francesca, more than anything, how little he cared for his hall. He opened doors, announced what the room was, and shut the door. He didn't bother explaining any of the portraits or paintings to her as they passed them, though they all watched with golden-bright eyes as Aldon and Francesca walked past, silent, a rail of dark birds on the walls. Francesca shuddered. She didn't think she liked them.

The guest wing even felt like a hotel. The corridors were panelled in oak, carpeted in a dark green patterned with cream-coloured vines. The doors were each shut, but each one had a different symbol – a leaf on one, a blackbird on another, a paw print on a third. They all seemed to be nature-inspired, but there was no other connection between them.

Aldon opened a door with a peony carved above the handle, showing Francesca inside. Francesca took two steps in – it wasn't a room, but a pair of them with a private bathroom. There was a burgundy velvet sofa in the outer room, a tea set already laid out on the coffee table, and there were three small, low-lying bookshelves along one wall, half-full. Through one open door at the back, she spotted a bedroom with a princess bed, with four posters and red velvet hangings.

"If this one suits, you can have these rooms," Aldon said, awkward, hanging in the doorway. He hadn't taken a step into the room after gesturing for her to enter. "Aman is next door, and I have Albert and his family across the hall from you, though he's sending his wife and children to America on a flight in a few days. Christie, I have in family quarters with me, but I understand the team usually has dinner together around seven in the formal dining room. Is there anything else I can do for you? To make you more comfortable?"

He sounded earnest, even if formal, and his expression when Francesca glanced up was pleading, somehow. As if he wanted her to be pleased, or if he wanted her to tell him what more he could do to please her, and he didn't quite know what else to say or do now. That made two of them.

"No," she replied. "No, it's – these rooms are fine. More than fine. It's – I'll settle in."

Aldon nodded, a little stiff, no easy smile on his face. "If you do need anything, please – let me or one of my house-elves know. You can – clap twice, loudly, and one of them will come to you."

"Thank you." Francesca took a few steps back towards him, holding out one hand for her case, which he was still carrying for her. "I'll – I'll do that."

Over the next week or so, Francesca saw even less of Aldon than she had been prepared to see. He had set aside the Rosier library for the ACD development group exclusively, and while he came in as often as he could, it seemed that he was largely preoccupied with other things. Some days, Francesca and the team didn't see him at all.

The mood was different now. Aman hadn't been a key part of the team when they were working on it previously, her main area of expertise being Dark detectors, particularly advancements in Sneakoscopes, Foe Glasses, and Secrecy Sensors. With the reorientation of the ACD towards more war-time applications, however, she had stayed behind to advise on potential defensive uses for the ACD. She was also within the magical frequency range for the device, so she had the newest iteration – Francesca's smallest and lightest version yet, with a tiny screen that flashed the runic sequence for Aldon's three-spell ward.

Francesca settled in, focusing on the work for the ACD. Around her, other preparations were being made – a map of Rosier Place appeared in her sitting room, not even a day later, with a map of the grounds and large red marks showing where traps had been planted, and other security rules were in effect. She caught sight of Neal, Sirius, Archie and Hermione passing through Rosier Place every few days for meetings with Aldon.

They weren't the only ones. Francesca saw Professor Patricia Ryan come in, a few days later, in her role as one of the Board members for the British International Association, Hermione beside her. Derrick Holden and Tobias MacLean came through, whom Francesca recognized as a former teammate and from the Triwizard Tournament. Most of the others, Francesca didn't know: a handsome man with a bright, easy smile and a familiar face that Francesca couldn't place; a large girl with blonde ringlets who stuttered a little as she talked; a well-dressed, dark-skinned boy close to her age with a sharp accent all came through Rosier Place to speak to Aldon. Owls were flying every day, both in and out, to people farther away. They were organizing a major meeting, trying to bring together anyone who wasn't already compromised, anyone who would be willing to stand against Voldemort.

Francesca stayed out of it. She was here for one thing, and one thing only: the ACD. It was what she was good at, and it was the best and most effective way for her to help, so she got on with it – with helping Albert test his new magical frequency measuring device, with analysing data and cross-referencing magical frequency with electromagnetic frequency, and with building new devices for anyone who would be able and willing to use them.

XXX

Potter Place wasn't the same as he remembered, Archie thought, landing heavily outside the walls that had never, ever been there the entirety of Archie's life. These walls were shielded with a half-roof over most of their length, but they weren't as high as the ones at Queenscove, and there was only one ring rather than two. They had their own, inbuilt guards, however, and Archie heard the regular stomp of the stone knights as they patrolled the walls in stiff, silent pairs. Unlike Queenscove, almost all the Potter grounds were contained within the walls.

He and Dad were the first people there, and Archie's nerves were high. The last two weeks had been busy; ever since Voldemort's very quiet takeover, they had been in action, doing the million and one things necessary to get the word out, to get people together for this meeting.

Uncle James and Aunt Lily had come back a week ago. Addy was walking now, and talking, and Archie wished he had some time to play with her. She didn't recognize him at all, hiding behind Aunt Lily and sucking her thumb, and all Archie had really been able to do was wave at her with an apologetic sort of smile. With the missives he and Hermione were sending out and the meetings and coordination that needed to happen between different groups, he simply had no time for anything else. Even the location of the meeting had been a fight.

Grimmauld Place was probably most likely to be accepted, but it was too small, and Neal had had no interest in having dozens of unknown persons on his lands. Aldon had wanted the meeting held at Rosier Place, but none of the Light faction, Uncle James included, had been particularly keen on that idea. Aldon, similarly, hadn't particularly wanted to go to Potter Place for the meeting, and he had the support of the Irish and Welsh, who considered James Potter, former Head Auror, every bit a part of the regime that had oppressed them for centuries.

Archie sighed, running a hand through his hair as he followed Dad across the grounds. He had talked everyone around to accepting Potter Place, no easy task. He had written multiple letters to Cedric Diggory for the Welsh, he had spent three days arguing with Aldon over it, and worst of all, there had been four hour-long phone calls to Ireland from Hermione's parents' house where he had listened to Saoirse rail at length about Ministry collaborators and he had had to convince her to set her legitimate grievances aside for the moment before she would agree to fly over for the meeting at all. Then, he had slipped down into the Lower Alleys, despite the risks, because Leo wasn't answering his owls.

Margo had found him within half an hour and taken him to the Dancing Phoenix. The Lower Alleys had more boarded up houses, more empty shops, and the streets seemed dirtier and emptier than he had seen them last. He wasn't sure if that had actually been the case, or if it was just his imagination – he expected the Alleys to be darker, different, more sombre than before, to reflect Voldemort's rise, so maybe it was impossible for him to see otherwise.

Leo had heard him out, as well as Archie's request to pass the word onto Harry. Voldemort taking control of the Ministry and the Wizengamot was a major change, and he didn't know what she would do about it. It made everything more dangerous for her, so Archie thought she would stay away, but at the same time, they were _all_ in danger now and she would be no different, so he hoped that she might return. He didn't know, but he didn't have a way to reach her other than Leo, and truth be told, it would be nice to have her back.

"I've already sent a copy of _Bridge_ to her," Leo said, over a pint of ale. This time, Archie had asked Leo for a recommendation on what to drink, so the ale he had was lighter, less bitter than the one he had had tried over the winter. "I don't know any better than you whether she'll come back. I'll attend your meeting, though, on guarantee of security – no one arrests me at this, not for who I am or anything I've done in the past."

"I think I can promise that." Archie grinned, lifting his glass. "No one has any evidence against you, and with the current state of things, I don't think anyone there will have the authority to arrest you. What is this? I like it better than the last ale I had it here."

"Thought you would – it's a pale lager, not an ale. It's local, too." Leo nodded at the glass, half-full. "Confirm that no one will try to arrest me at your meeting and send me the information. I'll be there. I might not have much to say, but I'll be there."

But today they would break through all of that, Archie hoped. Surely everyone, once they were face to face, would see that this was a time to cooperate, for everyone to band together against Voldemort.

Uncle James and Aunt Lily were already seated at the huge table, set out in a great U on the front lawn, talking quietly between themselves. Addy was sitting quietly in Aunt Lily's lap, sucking her thumb. Pitchers of water were already set out, one every few chairs, with full glasses beside every place. Archie reached into his messenger bag, pulling out pads of paper – two pads of paper for every chair, and five pens. He counted them out carefully, because the way Hermione put it, even a minor disparity might be grounds for a fight over who was being favoured.

Archie didn't understand that part. They were only cheap plastic Bic pens. He had bought an extra hundred and it had cost all of five quid, but Hermione said it wasn't about that, it was that some of the people there would be raring for a fight anyway.

"All right there, Archie?" Uncle James asked, looking up as Archie passed him and accepting his pads of paper and pens with a smile. "Have you heard from Harry?"

Uncle James had been asking the same every few days, just in case Archie did hear, but Archie only shook his head. "No, sorry. But I heard that word of the coup was sent to her a week ago, and it might still be in transit. For all I know, she could be in Borneo – she was in the Pacific Islands sometime last year, I think – and no owl is making that journey quickly."

Uncle James sighed. "Well, let me know if you do hear anything, Archie."

"Will do."

Archie heard the distant clap of Apparition from outside the gates, and he turned around and immediately grimaced. It was Aldon, with the former Lady Rosier behind him, and the Lady Malfoy.

What did Aldon think he was doing? He was dressed formally, as he always did, in a waistcoat, trousers, and boots, but otherwise he was obviously kitted out to make an impression. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, showing off ACD, wand, and more than one scar, and he had a leather harness over his shoulders, dangling a gun on his right side. His adoptive mother, too, had chosen Muggle dress – jeans, boots and a leather jacket that did little to hide the two guns hanging from her own shoulder holster, worn under her jacket. Her hands were free, her wand still away, but she scanned the walls with a careful eye, sizing up the Potter defenses.

Lady Malfoy was silent, regal, dressed in robes that Archie knew weren't hers, but Aldon had asked his house-elves to spare no effort in making fit. She took a seat, at the end of U, without a word. The former Lady Rosier sat down beside her, rearranging her shoulder harness with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

"Excuse me." Archie heard the rumble of disapproval in Uncle James' voice and looked over to see that his uncle had stood up, his hands flat on the table, and he was glaring at the Rosiers. "What, exactly, do you think you're carrying onto my grounds? My daughter is here as a show of good faith; do you not trust my hospitality?"

"I had not thought you would be bringing your child to a _treaty negotiation_," Aldon replied, sharp. "And I am, as you are very well aware, still within my challenge period as the new Lord Rosier. I haven't much choice. Here. A peace offering. I had lost track of it after the trial last year, but I recently found it in my trunk. It seems that Justice didn't care for it."

He dug in his pocket for a second, finding something, before throwing it across the U at Uncle James – a small stone, set into an earring, which Archie recognized after a moment as one of the communication orbs used by a player in the Triwizard Tournament. "It was Harriett's, and it was broken in the Tournament final. I traded my functioning half for hers just before she left, but she has not used it since to contact me, nor can it be used to send messages, only receive them. You might as well have it."

Uncle James seemed flabbergasted for a moment, before he blew out a breath and sat back down, pocketing the tiny device.

"No formal welcome to Peverell Hall, from one Lord to another?" Aldon smirked and sat down beside his adoptive mother, almost on the opposite end of the U from both Uncle James and Lily. "Well, no one ever said the Light faction was known for their manners."

Uncle James ignored him. "Lady Rosier," he greeted instead. "Lady Malfoy."

"Lord Potter," Lady Malfoy acknowledged, with a gracious tilt of her head.

"Not Rosier," Aldon's adoptive mother said, her eyes still roving the grounds, calculating. "Avery. Lina Avery, Stormwing. Don't cross me, Potter, and you still haven't formally welcomed the Lord Rosier."

"Aldon. James." Dad's voice was a warning. "This isn't the time, or the place, if it ever was. James, you know pureblood noble culture – the Rosier proposal was years ago, and Aldon isn't pursuing it—"

"And it's revoked." Aldon added, his expression and tone purposely indifferent, though Archie knew perfectly well from the quickness that he had leapt in that he was thinking something very different. Francesca had decided, to his relief, to stay at Rosier Place, and even if Francesca couldn't tell, Archie could see from every visit to Rosier Place that Aldon was quietly trying to impress her with the state of his holdings. There were fresh flowers laid out, every few days, wherever she might wander, and he knew that Aldon had asked one of his house-elves to pay extra attention to her and ensure that she had everything she might ever want or need. "That proposal is formally revoked. It would never have worked out anyway."

Uncle James blinked. "Good."

"Good," Aldon retorted, then he pulled his pad of A4 towards him, wrinkled his nose at the plastic pens that Archie had laid out, and reached inside his waistcoat for a fountain pen.

A few others trickled in, Lords and Ladies that Archie didn't know very well, all members of the Light faction. Lady Longbottom came in, turning her nose up at the Rosiers, followed by the Lord Thomas Ollivander, a very distant relation to the wandmaker. The Heir Goldenlake came in, as did the Heir Naxen, and the Lord Shafiq, and Archie smiled with relief when Neal showed up, his mother beside him.

Neal didn't have time to chat, since they were there formally, only flashing Archie a quick smile and taking a seat beside Aldon. There was a quiet murmur around the table at the motion, and with a second of hesitation, the Heir Goldenlake stood up and, with a quick nod to Uncle James, crossed the U to sit down beside the Queenscoves. Gareth the Younger of Naxen, the Heir Naxen, followed suit moments later.

"Well, if it isn't _Lily Evans_," Archie heard a familiar voice say, rich with unpleasant surprise, mixed with disdain, and he was so surprised that he nearly fell out of his chair turning around. "Didn't think you'd show your face, but I suppose we all have a price. Nice house."

There was a moment of silence, then Aunt Lily sucked in a breath. "Trish," she said quietly, then she stood up, neatening her skirts with one graceful hand. "Welcome to Potter Place. This is my daughter, Adriana. Addy."

Her voice quavered a little, and Archie looked back and forth between the two redheads: his Aunt Lily, always graceful and cheerful, now pale as if she had been punched in the gut, and Professor Ryan, her face twisted in disgust as Archie had never seen before, scanning the grand building behind them.

"Tell me, Lily – was it worth it?" Professor Ryan's voice was very quiet, her words clearly meant for Lily alone, but her faded accent was sharper as she spoke. "Big house. Nobility. A family. And all you had to do was throw away your principles – be beautiful, marry rich, marry _noble_, and go home. You could almost forget about the rest of us, couldn't you?"

"I _never_ forgot," Aunt Lily snapped, clutching Addy a little closer to her. Tears were starting to form in Addy's eyes, upset because her mother was upset. "I never, _ever_ forgot, Trish, and with my daughters, I _always_ remember. There's more than one way to fight, and I fought the laws from the inside, the way I always said I would."

Professor Ryan snorted. "I see you've made _wonderful_ progress," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm, before she took a corner seat on the massive U. "So much progress, indeed, that your daughter masqueraded as her pureblood cousin to go to the school that _you_ once dreamed of attending. Great job – all the gold stars for your help."

"Excuse me." Uncle James' voice was a low growl of warning. "This is my home, and I don't know who you are, but you will treat my wife with politeness when here, or you will leave."

"No," Archie interjected, standing up, and he heard Aunt Lily echoing the same thing. He glanced at her, and she shook her head at him with a weak sort of smile, motioning for Archie to continue. "No, Uncle James – Professor Ryan is here as a Board Member for the British International Association. They have more than a thousand members worldwide. She needs to be here."

"I'll take Addy inside, James," Aunt Lily added, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek and tucking her chair in beside him. "I'll – you can fill me in later, all right? You don't need me here for this."

Uncle James looked taken aback, while Archie breathed a small sigh of relief as he saw Hermione enter. He flashed Hermione a smile, hoping she would know what to say or do, but Hermione only shook her head with a small, confused frown and took a seat at Professor Ryan's side. Archie wished she could sit with him, but like Professor Ryan, Hermione was here in her capacity as a representative of the British International Association, and specifically the student branches. They would meet up later, if they could, but now wasn't the time.

Percy slipped in a few minutes later, with a quick nod to Archie as he took a seat between the Heir Naxen and the British International Association. He was the last one Archie personally knew for the next fifteen minutes, however, since while he recognized people by face, or name, or reputation, he couldn't say he knew much about any of them. There was a thin, small man with a twitching nose that he remembered from his trial last year, walking with Hannah Abbott, and Blaise Zabini walked in soon afterwards and took a seat beside them. Cedric Diggory, too, was someone Archie recognized vaguely from the Tournament, but to whom he had never spoken other than in letters. Minerva McGonagall, the Lady Ross, received nods of welcome from Dad and Uncle James, who had been in her House at Hogwarts. Archie gaped with surprise when he saw someone with bright pink hair walk in, beside a solemn, wary-looking man in a turban, both of them dressed in black No-Maj uniforms.

"Tonks!" He grinned, taking a moment to place her – he didn't think he had ever formally met her, but he had heard the stories. The only other Metamorphmagus in the family, and now the only one in the family at present. "You became a Muggle bobbie?"

"Well, I was already doing double duty as the official Auror liaison with Scotland Yard, so when I got fired from the Ministry, I just kept the other job. And that's _Detective Constable Tonks_ to you," she winked, then nodded at the man beside her. Archie wondered, offhand, if he was a No-Maj until he caught a peek of the man's wand, cleverly hidden in a buttonhole. "Sorry, Arch. Work calls. We'll chat later, yeah?"

Saoirse Riordan walked in, a bare five minutes before the meeting started, dressed in emerald green, a magical wind lifting her bell-like skirt in around her as golden Celtic designs ran over her dress like water. She was followed by Sean Docherty, also from Ireland, and a brown-haired woman who could only have been his mother. Archie stood to welcome the group with a smile, but he had barely taken two steps forward when Uncle James grabbed his arm.

"You invited the _Tuatha D__é__?_" he asked, his eyes serious and his voice low. "Archie – they're _terrorists_."

"And you're a Ministry pig," Saoirse said, her voice crystal as she made clear that she heard him fine anyway. "Better make this worth our while, Archie – we didn't come here to be insulted. Cousin."

The latter comment was directed at Cedric Diggory, who stood and bowed sharply to her, three fingers on his left land touching his right shoulder. "Cousin," he replied, before sitting back down. The three Irish pulled out seats beside him, on the long line connecting the two loose arms of the U, between Diggory and the Lady Ross.

Leo Hurst was next to show up, alone, and Uncle James shot Archie another look as Archie stood up to welcome him, too.

"Thanks for the invitation," Leo replied, tipping him a roguish wink.

"Don't arrest him, Uncle James," Archie warned lightly, and Uncle James sighed as Leo took a seat in an empty space between Hannah Abbott and the British International Association. "He's a _guest_, today. And he speaks for the Lower Alleys."

"The _criminals_ of the Lower Alleys," Uncle James muttered back, but Archie clapped him on the shoulder.

"They're in good company," he replied with a warning grin. "With _me_. I have a criminal conviction on record too."

Lord Dumbledore was the last to arrive, which he did much to Uncle James' obvious relief. He and Dad were on their feet immediately, welcoming him with bright smiles, though two thirds of the table stayed sitting. Archie was surprised, for a moment, but winced as he realized that while Lord Dumbledore might have been the head of the Light faction for many years, a symbol of hope for Archie and many halfbloods, he was little more than another noble and a Ministry sympathizer to others.

There was a round of muttering at the table, and Archie winced when he belatedly realized that the group was already divided along traditional lines. Aldon, his adoptive mother, and the Lady Malfoy sat on one end of table, and most of the Light faction was already on the other. Between them sat a range of representatives from other groups – many of them illegal under the Ministry laws, many of whom had no friendship with either the former SOW Party or the Light faction.

Already a great start, he sighed mentally, but the news of Voldemort would override all their differences. It had to – there was no other option.

"Good morning, everyone," Lord Dumbledore began with a kindly smile. "I'm glad that everyone here could make it here today, that we can discuss how to handle the rise of the so-called Voldemort."

There was a mutter from one corner. "And who are you to be taking charge?"

The voice was Irish – not Saoirse or Sean, but the woman who had to be Sean's mother. She stood, brown eyes scanning the group warily. "Mary Docherty. We were invited here by Arcturus Rigel Black, not by you, _Lord_ Dumbledore. Why are you taking charge and leading this discussion?"

Lord Dumbledore paused. "Why, indeed?" he asked, polite, leaning back in his chair. "My apologies. I fell back into my role as the head of the Light faction too quickly. I will happily concede the chair to another."

"Now, wait a minute," Lord Ollivander cut in with a frown. "Lord Dumbledore has more experience than you lot combined. There's no reason why he shouldn't lead this meeting, and I'm not listening to some wet behind the ears pup."

"Then we walk," Saoirse said, standing up briskly. "Voldemort is a problem that you lot created, for which you sought Irish assistance – forgetting, apparently, about the last four centuries of oppression. Deal with your problem yourselves. Whoever your terrorist is, he doesn't much care about Ireland. Sean, Mary, lunch in London before we head home?"

"No, no, hey, calm down," Archie said, standing up quickly with a quick intake of breath. "Look, I'm here. Calm down. We're all in this together – Voldemort killed the Lord Riddle, and the Minister for Magic, and we need to figure out how we're going to work together."

"We're taking it at your word that the Voldemort led a coup of the Ministry and the SOW Party at all," Lady Longbottom added, her voice cold. "My son and daughter-in-law report no changes at the Ministry, and the memorandum that went out states only that the Minister is ill. Where is that evidence, Black?"

"We were there," the former Lady Rosier snapped, her eyes dark with fury. "My dear friend, the Lord Evan Rosier, died there, which is why my son now sits in his seat. The Lord Malfoy fell there as well, as did many others. Good people, most of them."

"Pureblood supremacist bigots," someone corrected her, but when Archie turned his head, he couldn't identify who had said it.

Lady Longbottom scoffed. "He's not your son, Lady Rosier," she reminded the other woman, her voice hard. "I'm not sure what he is, exactly, but the trial showed quite definitively that he isn't your son. I'm surprised another of the Rosier relations hasn't come to knock him off that seat yet."

"They're a little preoccupied with hiding the fact that a madman is now in charge of the SOW Party and the Ministry," Lady Malfoy said, sharp, her blue eyes narrowed in dislike. "I lost my _husband_ in the coup. I was there."

"Then why haven't we heard anything?" Lady Longbottom spread her hands on her side of the table, and Archie could see Lord Ollivander nodding beside her. Worse still, he could see that she was making headway with some of the other minor Lords – the Heirs Naxen and Goldenlake were listening, at least. "There's been no press release from the Ministry, nothing, and my son and daughter-in-law tell me that all is normal at the Ministry."

"But what else would you expect people do?" Percy raised an eyebrow. "There is a command structure at the Ministry, and always work to be done. In times of uncertainty, people will follow their routines in the absence of other directions."

"Lady – Lady Longbottom, if I might interrupt, I would also remind you that the _Daily Prophet_ continues to be out of commission." Armand Abbott raised his hand – Archie remembered, suddenly, that he worked for the paper. "I will be the first to tell you that it was not a… _reliable_ paper in the best of circumstances, and I do note that there was a comprehensive report in _Bridge_ a little under a week ago."

"_Bridge_," the Lord Ollivander growled, disparaging. "That rag?"

"My spy in Voldemort's ranks confirms that he intends on a soft entry into Wizarding Britain," Aldon interrupted, his voice clear as he tried to bring them back onto the issue. "That involves maintaining normalcy at the Ministry, which handles the operational functions of Wizarding Britain, until he can set up the _Daily Prophet_ again and rewrite the story of his coup into something sympathetic."

"Your _spy,_" someone else muttered, and Aldon glared around the U, looking for the person who had said it.

"Yes, my _spy_," he confirmed, icy, after a few minutes when he wasn't able to identify the speaker. Neither had Archie, so Aldon was doing about as well as he did. "I would also swear on Justice that the coup happened. I was not there, but my gift and my information are in complete agreement."

"I also had a contact at the meeting," Lord Dumbledore added, his voice quiet but carrying a tone of warning. "Professor Severus Snape was at Malfoy Manor. He advised me of the coup that night, though I did not know the extent or details before the _Bridge_ report. Professor Snape was fortunate enough to escape early in the night, before Voldemort killed Tom."

"As was I," Zabini said, raising a hand. "I was there. I was also fortunate enough to escape just before the attack happened, but I heard, and I saw, the attack behind me as I ran."

"I think that settles the truth of Voldemort's coup at least, or do you need more evidence?" Aldon's words were harsh, but not as harsh as his tone. "Because if so, I would be _delighted _to pass the word onto my spy, and he can earn some trust with our resident madman by planning a strike on _your _families."

"That's a perfectly horrible thing to say, Aldon," Hermione snapped, throwing her pen down from where she had been scribbling furiously. "How could you say you would put someone's family out to be attacked? We are trying to build trust and consensus here, not attack each other."

Aldon blinked, then he frowned and nodded. "My apologies. I allowed my frustration to get the better of me. I apologize for those remarks, Lady Longbottom, Lord Ollivander."

"Silver-tongued, the lot of you," Lord Ollivander growled. "I don't believe for a second that you mean that. I've never heard a Rosier mean their apologies."

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," Aldon retorted, a flash of anger coming across his face and folding his arms over his chest. "However, if you are not satisfied at this point that Voldemort has indeed taken control of both the SOW Party and the Ministry, with confirmation both from Lina and the Lady Malfoy, who were present, from Mr. Zabini, who was present, and with independent corroboration from Lord Dumbledore, then there is little that I can say now that would convince you. We should move onto the negotiations. I agree that with the Irish that Lord Dumbledore should not be leading these discussions – while I mean him no disrespect, he is the head of the Light faction, and I am a Dark wizard with no historic friendship with the Light faction. My preference would be for Arcturus Rigel Black to moderate the negotiations, with the assistance of his father."

"The British International Association agrees with that choice," Professor Ryan said, inclining her head towards Archie. "We have limited to no past experience of Dumbledore, whether good or ill, but we are familiar with and we trust Arcturus Black, who shares many of our experiences."

"I agree," Neal added, with a quick smile of encouragement at Archie. "Queenscove has not been an active house for long, but despite my invitations, I have never met Lord Dumbledore before today. If not Archie, I would be fine with Lord Black as well."

"My apologies, Queenscove," Dumbledore said, with a small smile. "I did mean to respond to your invitation, and did not intend my silence to be a snub. I was busy."

Neal nodded, brusque. "No matter, Queenscove prefers Archie run the agenda. Please."

Archie paused, glancing at his Dad, who only nodded at him to go on. Archie hadn't prepared for this – or, well, he _had_, because Hermione had made him. He had thought she was just being over-prepared, as always, but his job had been to get everyone to the bargaining table, he thought. Get everyone to one table, and the issue of Voldemort would be overriding. Get everyone to one table, and Dad, or Lord Dumbledore, or Uncle James would take charge, and they would all start making plans.

He hadn't realized that Aldon wouldn't trust Lord Dumbledore or Uncle James, or that Saoirse would only want to talk to _him_, or that even the BIA had no reason to trust Lord Dumbledore, or Uncle James, or Dad. They didn't know them, but they did feel like they knew him.

He swallowed, reaching for his bag. Hermione had made him prepare an agenda for the day, printed on a stack of sheets in his messenger bag, but he hadn't bothered to set them out since he assumed someone else would take over and run the meeting. He was prepared, but he wasn't _ready _for it.

_Fake it until you make it_, he ordered himself silently. Just like acting. Who do they want to moderate, and who do they _need_ to moderate? He pulled out the stack of printed agendas from his bag. "I'm prepared to lead, if everyone is agreeable?"

"You want me to sit here and listen to a _child_?" Lord Ollivander stood up. "This is insanity, and I will have no part in it."

"I agree with the Lord Ollivander," Lady Longbottom said, stern. "Lord Dumbledore has the greatest political experience of anyone at this table, but as a compromise, I would be willing to accept Lord Potter taking the chair as well."

"And Ireland walks," Saoirse snapped. "I will not take part in a meeting being led by former leaders of the Wizengamot and the Ministry."

She hadn't called them pigs, which was an improvement, Archie thought with a note of hysteria. At least she had gotten _that_ out of her system, in four hours of phone calls and before the meeting started.

"Then walk," Lord Ollivander replied, with a haughty glare. "This is a table for adults and problem-solvers, and not for terrorists pretending at legitimacy."

"The _Tuatha Dé_ and the Free Irish can raise a fighting force of four hundred between us." Sean Docherty's smile was light, playful, but sharp as a skinning knife. "Sure you want to make that call?"

"Is that a _threat?_" Lord Ollivander was flabbergasted. "As should be expected of _terrorists_. Professor McGonagall, surely you have something to add, here – you have worked closely with Lord Dumbledore over many years."

"Now, hold on," Archie said, standing up with his sheaf of agendas and trying to see how he could possibly deescalate this situation, bring people back to the bargaining table. "Everyone, calm down. We're here to talk."

"Sit down, child." Lady Longbottom waved her hand at him, dismissive. "Leave this to those old enough to handle it. I will lead this discussion, if I must."

"Should you step up and do so, Lady Longbottom, House Rosier walks, and I take Stormwing military guidance and my spy network within the Ministry and Voldemort's camp with me." Aldon's voice was icy and Archie felt a blast of cold air from his direction. Aldon had to have been learning from Neal, using his elemental magic to showcase his mood, and Archie winced. "I am not here to wantonly support Light faction decisions, but to discuss a path forward."

There was a murmur of agreement from the connecting line of the U – Cedric Diggory and Saoirse Riordan were nodding, and even a quick, rough count showed that Aldon's supporters outnumbered the Light faction.

There was a moment's pause, before Professor McGonagall spoke. "Lord Ollivander, Lady Longbottom," she said, stiffly polite. "I believe there has been some misunderstanding. I am present here not as one of Dumbledore's staunchest friends and allies, which I am, but as the Lady Ross and as the official emissary of the Clanmeet. The death of Lord Riddle and rise of Voldemort leads to a paradigm shift – I, too, am not here to discuss only what I can do for Wizarding Britain, but also to explore a path forward for the Clans, one in which we are _not_ a part of Wizarding Britain. I believe the _Tuatha Dé _and the Free Irish are here with the same intent. You have asked for our support to win your war, and expressed a willingness to negotiate, so let us get to it. The Clans may be able to raise a force of a hundred, which I understand is comparable to what the Lord Potter has managed to pull together of Aurors, former Aurors, and Ministry defectors."

"I do expect to be able to pull together more," Uncle James added, a line forming between his eyebrows. "It is early, yet."

"Only because you were caught flat-footed." Aldon smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Nearly half of this table was better prepared – I suppose you and the Light thought we would just show up and be grateful to bask in your glory. Archie, I told you we should have held this meeting at Rosier Place. It would have set the tone better. Otherwise you have this: the Light already thinking they can tell the rest of us what to do."

"Aldon…" Archie sighed, standing, and handed his sheaf of agendas to Dad to pass out. He was glad he had watched Hermione run her Advocacy and Policy meetings at AIM so many times last year – he knew what he was supposed to do. And he had a written agenda for today. He could do it – he could listen to people, and today would be about listening and controlling the room. He glanced at Dad, who smiled at him, encouraging. "Insults will lead us nowhere, so stop it. I'll run the agenda. Any opposition?"

"This is absolutely preposterous," Lord Ollivander snapped, getting to his feet. "I will not sit here and be lectured to by a _child_, nor entertain these absurdities. The _Clans_, the _Tuatha Dé, _the _Free_ _Irish_ – we should not be negotiating with our freedom."

He walked out, and Archie watched him leave, somehow disappointed even if he didn't know the man. He scowled, taking a breath to try to call him back.

"Let him go," the former Lady Rosier said lowly, shaking her head. "He's not worth it – his holdings are sizeable, but far from any of ours. He brings nothing to the table but it would stretch our resources to defend him in case of attack."

"I have to agree with Lord Ollivander, however," the Heir Goldenlake said, his low voice careful. "Not on Mr. Black as the moderator for our discussion, but on the matter of the topics for negotiation. You're telling us that a terrorist has killed Lord Riddle and taken control of the Ministry – this should be our priority. Any other issues should be set aside to later."

"And our view is, if not now, then when?" Professor Ryan replied, tapping the pad of paper in front of her. "The British International Association, as a prominent international lobby group, could assist you in many areas: setting up refugee routes out of Britain, putting pressure on the International Confederation of Wizards and other wizarding governments for humanitarian and military aid. But we have no incentive to do so absent very real promises for change. Some of us are happy living abroad, but many of us would like to come home. We didn't choose our blood – we didn't choose to be expelled from our country."

"And you'll hold aid hostage unless we give you what you want, is that it?" Uncle James snapped, blue eyes sparking. "That's reprehensible. No one at this table, except the Lady Malfoy and the Lord Rosier over there, ever voted for the blood discrimination laws."

"And that's factually incorrect," Aldon interrupted, with a contemptuous glance across the table. "Lady Malfoy has never held the Malfoy vote, let alone any other, and you know full well that I claimed my seat less than two weeks ago. Neither the Lady Malfoy nor I ever personally voted in favour of the blood discrimination laws. Lady Longbottom, by contrast, did vote in favour of the 1981 reforms, and both Lord Ollivander and Lady Longbottom voted in favour of the Marriage Law. Well do I remember having to duck and remain out of sight for many months to avoid unwanted proposals – I, too, am a halfblood."

"Regardless, you need to make a decision," Professor Ryan said, her voice clear and carrying. "British Muggleborns and halfbloods are either a part of the nation you want to save, or we are not. We should not be called on to provide aid to you unless you are prepared to make concessions to us – full repeal of all the blood discrimination laws, including the employment restrictions, schooling laws, and Marriage Law. It should be a small price for pay, if you already disagree with those laws."

"I wish I could agree with you." To his credit, Lord Dumbledore did look apologetic. "I would have no issue making those promises, but the schooling restrictions at Hogwarts were ordered by the Board of Governors. I have no authority to override them, else I would have done so. Similarly, with the Wizengamot – we cannot unilaterally end legislation already passed."

"The Wizengamot is probably finished anyway," Lina said, shrugging. The movement, and her open jacket, flashed her weaponry to the rest of the table. "This kind of coup – rarely do governments return to what they were previously. It would be perfectly appropriate to consider what you might be willing to support or what government you would push to see in the event we don't all die in the next few years."

"There was nothing wrong with our system of government!" Lady Longbottom snapped, and her hand, heavily jewelled with rings, slapped the table. "Nothing except that, according to you, Voldemort has taken over it!"

There was widespread muttering, especially from the Irish, though it looked like others agreed; Hannah had leaned over to whisper something to her father, Cedric Diggory was expressionless, and Hermione had broken her first pen and blue ink was dribbling over her sleeve.

Dad nudged him on the shoulder, and Archie saw that everyone at the table had his agenda already. "Go on, Arch," Dad whispered. "Take charge. I'll back you wherever you need it, and let Lady Longbottom leave if she wants. James can try to talk her around later, and she isn't critical."

Archie nodded. "That's _enough_, everyone," he said, projecting his voice across the U. "Lord Dumbledore, I invited everyone here, and it seems like more than half of this table agrees that I should run this meeting. Will you oppose?"

"I'm sure you will do admirably." Lord Dumbledore smiled, serene. "I am most interested in a fruitful discussion, and I do not need to be the one to lead it. Please, go ahead, Mr. Black."

Archie nodded again, before turning to the rest of the table. He kept his voice clear and firm – he was in charge, and he had to show it. "From the last forty-five minutes of arguing, I can see that most of us don't know or trust each other, nor do we agree on where we should be going with this meeting. Let's back up, start with introductions – introductions and an opening statement from everyone, please. And we'll address each other by name – first names. We are all equals at this table, and we are trying to come to an agreement. First names will remind us of that."

"_Equals—" _Lady Longbottom spluttered, then she stood up. "I have no time for these games, nor am I satisfied that there _is_ a situation of risk. I will be leaving. Everyone, I would caution you against following Black into this madness – while he sounds cogent, he _is_ a Black."

She turned and walked out, and Archie heard the clap of Apparition from outside the gates. _Ignore it_, he told himself sternly, and attempted a smile. "I'd make a joke about how all the best Blacks are insane, but given that my Aunt Bellatrix is, uh, who she is, I somehow don't think that would be appropriate."

He waited for a laugh, but there wasn't one. Instead, most of the remaining Light faction shot him a glare, while Aldon and a few others smiled slightly, humouring him. Archie shook his head, deciding it was probably best to just get on with it. "To start – my name is Arcturus Rigel Black. I go by Archie, or Arch. As many of you know, I am one of the many people behind _Bridge_. Voldemort has killed the Lord Riddle, along with the Lord Malfoy and the Minister for Magic. Based on Voldemort's own actions over the past two years – the attacks on the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, the Triwizard Tournament, the Hogwarts Express, the Daily Prophet and numerous other targets in the last two years – I strongly believe that he is a threat to us and to everyone who stands for blood equality and the rule of law both. _Bridge's_ analyses indicate that Voldemort stands for pureblood supremacy, to a greater degree than even Lord Riddle did. I am primarily interested in working together against Voldemort, but I am also interested in planning for a better world after Voldemort – one where we are all equal, and one where we all have a voice in government. Narcissa?"

The blonde woman was solemn, taking the moment to think about it. "Lady Narcissa Malfoy," she said eventually, though most of the table had to know who she was. Her voice was even, calm, hinting at little of her emotions. "I was there, the night that Voldemort killed Lord Riddle, and I watched as he tortured and murdered my husband. My son and I escaped with our lives and little more, while Voldemort holds his birthright. I want Voldemort dead, and Malfoy Manor returned to my son. I am willing to negotiate on all else to make it happen."

Archie nodded, seeing that she was done, then gestured for the former Lady Rosier, Aldon's adoptive mother, to go next.

"Lina Avery, Stormwing," the woman said, shaking her head. "Call me Lina. I don't much care for any of the issues, but I made promises to the former Lord Rosier before he passed. I intend to see them through. I stand with my adoptive son, the new Lord Rosier, in all things."

Aldon didn't need a gesture to speak – he went ahead and started, while Archie picked up a pad of paper and started taking notes. He would need them, to keep everyone's statements, the things they wanted and wouldn't want, straight. He should have brought a dicto-quill, or eight. "Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. I am a halfblood, and my… I am sworn to a Muggleborn. I have to offer information, including from within Voldemort's camp, and I have no interest in handing over _anything _to this group without certain guarantees being made. A complete repeal of the blood discrimination laws, beginning with the Marriage Law, followed by repeal of the employment and schooling laws. I will also support widespread emancipation."

Archie didn't let the Aldon's tone, rich in unconcealed anger, distract him. "Thank you for that statement, Aldon. Neal?"

On and on, it went. Neal was interested equally in coordinating against Voldemort and wider governmental change, but nearly all of the other Light houses, Lord Dumbledore and Uncle James included, were only interested in fighting against Voldemort and restoring the Wizengamot, with varying degrees of openness to a new system of governance. Some, like Dad and Lord Dumbledore, were willing to discuss it; others, like Goldenlake and Uncle James, didn't think it appropriate to discuss other issues at all until the problem of Voldemort was addressed.

In contrast, for the British International Association, the repeal of the blood discrimination laws and a change in governance, to break the entrenched pureblood hold in government, were non-negotiable. While they had members in Britain, the vast majority of them were not, and Voldemort represented more opportunity than threat. They wanted to come home, but they had lives elsewhere – without promises of a new kind of government, they had no incentive to help at all.

They were echoed, to varying degrees, by the Irish and the Scots. Both the Irish and the Scots would fight against Voldemort on their lands, not wanting his intrusion, but were both ultimately interested in leaving Wizarding Britain entirely. They were agreeable to working collectively, but only within limits, and only if they maintained authority within their territories. They both had sizeable fighting forces to offer, but expected to be treated with like an independent nation and to maintain decision-making authority over their own forces.

Still other groups had other demands. Cedric Diggory, speaking on behalf of the Welsh, wanted a complete repeal of the laws on traditional casting as well as a loosening of the laws restricting witches and wizards from participating in the Muggle world. He had pulled together a small group, only forty or so, but his forty was far more accessible than more than four hundred Irish, and a hundred Clan kin. Armand Abbott, for the shifter alliance, did not push for full governmental change but for a wider voice in the Wizengamot for shifters – ten seats in the Wizengamot or other government body set aside specifically for the shifter community to hold as they chose. In return, he noted a network of fifty shifters, willing to work at any variety of tasks but whose strength was espionage and sabotage.

Still others said little. Leo's introduction was perfunctory, and he only stated that he was there as a representative of the Lower Alleys. He offered nothing and demanded nothing, only saying that he would carry news back to the Lower Alleys. Uncle James looked suspicious, but considering that Archie knew Leo was holding back, he couldn't blame Uncle James for being suspicious. Percy was there on request to provide advice if desired, but he had no position of his own, nor much to offer. Detective Chief Inspector Alokpreet Singh, who had arrived beside Tonks, provided a statement on behalf of the mages working in Scotland Yard, almost thirty strong, and advised their _only_ priority was the protection of the public – the _Muggle_ public – from interference by the wizarding world. They wouldn't fight directly against Voldemort but demanded open lines of communication.

"Why not help more directly?" Uncle James asked, frowning. The question had been meant genuinely, Archie thought, and there wasn't a hint of judgement. "Even if you work in the Muggle world, you have magic."

The tall, turbaned man studied him for a moment. "Do you realize how much time we spend scrubbing the CCTV of Apparition and other magic, even in peacetime? It's as if mages don't realize that Britain has CCTV at all. I think we'll have enough to do, simply generating cover for any major action that might bleed over to the Muggle world, don't you?"

Archie moved on, taking notes of what each group was willing to offer, what they would demand in the meantime, and how they envisioned working. Just the opening statements and replies, interrupted as they were by more argument and frequent breaks for people to clear their heads, took the rest of the day. No small part of that was Archie himself, often with Dad's help, reining in another argument, scolding someone for being unproductive or interrupting someone's speech, and generally cajoling, teasing, and lecturing people to staying on track.

It came down to listening – real listening, not just pretending to listen, and listening to more than what people said. It came down to understanding what people really wanted, what was a posture and what wasn't, and breaking through each of those postures to get to a group's real position. He found a book, _Getting to Yes,_ slipped into his messenger bag after two days, courtesy of probably Hermione, but there wasn't any magic to it – it was just work, endless work, figuring out what promises could be made and what couldn't, what each group considered to be a deal-breaker, and walking people back from their emotions to a point where they could all reason together.

Archie wanted a deal, a firm agreement one that everyone could believe in, that everyone would follow. And he would do what he needed to do to make it happen.

XXX

Leo sighed, Apparating back to the Alleys after another long and exhausting day. After three and a half days, Harry's cousin had finally managed to talk the lot of them into setting aside their differences and into some meaningful action on Voldemort. Wars were complicated creatures, and Black did not have a firm group that would listen to him. Decisions had to be made about what each of group would do and how the alliance would function during the conflict: who would be involved in military decisions, who would take charge of information gathering and flow, supply chain logistics and refugee routes, the million other small duties that went into fighting a war.

Leo understood more than he said about fighting wars. He, after all, had been dealing with Scar in the Lower Alleys for most of the last two years. No one knew where the man had come from, but he had been Leo's personal headache, a thorn in his side, for about that length of time. If Scar had come out and challenged him openly, Leo would have welcomed it, but he didn't – he launched strikes on Leo's most loyal friends and allies, he set traps on traditionally off-limit locations like the Dancing Phoenix and the Maywell Clinic, and he involved innocents who had never been involved with the Rogue into his schemes. It was a daily war, one that Leo couldn't be sure if he was winning or not.

He hated to admit it, but he was tired. How long had he been the Rogue, now? He had been fifteen when he had won his title the traditional way, in trial by combat. Only fifteen, and he was twenty-two now. Twenty-two, and he had been fighting for two years or more, outside the usual Rogue duties, and that wouldn't end anytime soon.

There was no one to replace him. Marek always said he wanted it, but even those comments and challenges had tapered off since Scar had become an issue. And Leo couldn't just walk away from his responsibilities – the Rogue might have his hand in a hundred illegal activities at once, but he was also the ruling force down here. He saw to it that the streets were cleaned, that Floo stations and other public utilities were maintained, that orphaned children were looked after, that something like order prevailed. Whatever the Department of Magical Law Enforcement thought, the Alleys were one of the few places where vampires, Squibs, thieves, werewolves, and law-abiding witches and wizards could co-exist relatively peacefully.

It was a position of honour, and he carried out the duties of his office with pride. But however long Archie and his allies had been dealing with war, Leo had been doing it longer, and he was tired. He was tired, and stretched thin with hours of negotiations every day on top of his regular duties, and before he could even think about going home to sleep, he needed to meet with Marek and Rispah, hear the word in the Lower Alleys, and provide instructions for another day.

He wished Harry were home. Not because she would have necessarily _helped_ him with any of his duties, though her potions expertise was appreciated, but because he liked having her around. She was his friend – she was someone who knew him and liked him, someone who hadn't grown up with him and who didn't answer to him as the Rogue. Just a friend, and someone who provided Leo a place where he could just be _Leo_, not the Rogue, not anything more. She gave him a space to breathe, to relax, and with Harry, Leo could just have fun. And she was off, somewhere in the big, wide, world, and Leo missed _fun._

He cracked open the door to the Dancing Phoenix, smiling when he saw that Marek and Rispah were already waiting for him. Old Solom had set out a steaming chicken pot pie at his usual place at the table, probably fresh from the oven and filled with crisp peas that would pop in his mouth, and there was a tankard of his favourite dark ale, too.

"You all treat me better than you should." Even saying so, Leo sighed happily as he slid into the seat they had left for him. "Keep this up, and I'm going to think I'm _noble_ or something."

"I'll take care of it if you do, don't you worry about that." Rispah tilted a small, cat's smile at him. "But you look awful, Leo. You aren't made for this sittin' and politickin' business. It's bad for your health."

"And don't I know it," Leo quipped, digging into his pot pie with another heavy sigh. "Three _days_. It took three days for Black to break through the bullshit and get down to business. But in the process, he's talked almost everyone with any sort of political power to commit to referendums on Irish and Scottish independence, a full repeal of the blood discrimination laws, and more talks on governance after Voldemort is finished. Don't know if he _can_ promise any of it, but I wrangled seats for the Alleys at the later talks."

"Think it'll lead anywhere?" Her voice was skeptical, but she was leaning back, her blue eyes looking upwards in thought. She didn't think it would lead anywhere, but Leo could see the wisp of hope around her, nonetheless.

"Think we even need it?" Marek replied, one eyebrow raised as he shot them both a disbelieving look.

"We were a part of the formal government before." Leo's smile was teasing – with the length of time that had passed, few remembered the time when there had been commoners in the Wizengamot. Half the hall was technically reserved for them, and all those seats now used for the Book of Copper noble families had once been the purview of commoners. It was only that those seats had always gone to the same people, and eventually they had just been ennobled, and no one had replaced the commoner seats. "If it happens, I think it'd be a good thing. The British Muggle government has a House of Commons alongside the House of Lords, speakin' for the people, and it works well enough. Really, the government should be doing a huge part of our jobs – providing social services, public utilities, that sort of thing."

"Pipe dream, askin' nobles to care about any but their own." Marek shook his head. "You're idealists, the both of you."

"Sometimes, you need a little idealism, Swift." Leo grinned back, taking a bite of his pie. "Lets you dream and come up with new things for a better world, you know?"

"Got more things to worry about here," Marek replied, but he smiled anyway. "While you were off sittin' in a chair and eating food off them rich nobs tables, we were looking into Scar and keepin' an eye on things here."

"Rich nobs food ain't as good as this." Leo sighed, contented. There was nothing like one of Old Solom's chicken pot pies. They were stuffed full of goodness, only Ma's pies were better. Nothing beat Ma's pies. "And you followed your orders, good for you. What have you got for me?"

Marek exchange a look with Rispah, who shook her head, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard, line. "Not much. Not enough. Scar's been quiet, too quiet, and his last hidey-holes are clear. Maybe we shouldn't have cleared them out, a month back – now we have no idea where he is."

"We had to clear them out," Leo reminded her, wrapping his hands around his tankard of ale. "They were posing a risk to the neighbourhood, and we had good info that Scar was hiding in the one on Kingsgate. So, he's in the wind – it was a risk. Back to the drawing board then, you know the drill. Ask around, check in on our key contacts, the covens and werewolves and so on."

"There's the problem, boss." Marek shook his head again. "Half our contacts aren't talking, too scared, and the other half don't know. The Strigoi Shrouds are gone – Wizarding Britain is too hot for them, they said. Took off to the south of Italy."

"Damn," Leo cursed, taking a swig of his ale. The strikes last month, a coordinated one that hit three of Scar's hideouts at once, had been his best shot so far at wiping out his enemy. He had lost four in it, and even if he had scooped up a good number of Scar's men while he was at it, the losses were still sorely felt. "We keep looking. Someone will talk, eventually. It's a long game."

"You think there's any relation to Voldemort?" Rispah's words were careful, but Leo knew her well enough to know that she had probably been pondering the question for some time. "Wizarding Britain is small, Leo. Hard to believe they're _not_ related."

Leo shrugged, shaking his head. "Who knows? Scar was doing some recruiting in the Alleys awhile back – you heard the rumours, so did we all. But I don't know that it was related to Voldemort, because even if the timing works, the motives are different. According to Avery and Malfoy, who were at the coup, Voldemort's big speech was oriented towards pureblood families that never managed to make it powerful, make it noble."

"That ain't _wrong_, for the Lower Alleys." Marek scrunched up his forehead, thinking about it.

"But it ain't right, either." Leo sighed. "Most people in the Alleys can't prove their blood status, and we've too many Squibs. Voldemort doesn't help us – Black's big ideas of widespread citizenship and emancipation help us better. We're more likely to be _Bridge_ readers than Voldemort followers."

"Down here, maybe," Rispah interrupted with a grimace. "Down here in Market district, or Patten or Cesspool, sure, but the upper districts like Unicorn, Flash, Highfields – they're exactly that type. Pureblood, have been for generations, but never made it into the noble or elite families. Know much about who Voldemort's got on his side?"

Leo shook his head. "No more than what we knew before. Malfoy was too in shock, Avery too busy breakin' out, I think, and both of them are shit at identifying anyone not noble. Aldon Rosier has the best information out of Voldemort's camp, but he's been spending more time getting into fights than he does sharing information. Anyway. Black's talks are moving on to Voldemort. Things are still shaking out, but I think James Potter and the Light faction are going to end up with authority over most of the military action. Potter is pulling together Ministry defectors, recently fired Aurors, that lot, and that group will probably only trust Potter and Dumbledore. Scots and Irish will probably end up keeping full control over their own forces, but not sure who'll give directions when they're outside Scotland and Ireland or how things will work for joint actions. Logistical details, it'll probably be a mix, they're still working that out."

"What about refugees?" Rispah was frowning. "They're going to have refugees – we're already seeing some in the Alleys. It's going to flow into our territory, and we need to have plans for this. We can't take in that many people."

"They're talkin'." Leo's tankard of ale was empty, and he looked around, flagging one of the wait staff for another. "If they can persuade the British International Association fully on board, they might be able to work something internationally. I'll raise it though, tomorrow – you're right, we can't take in that many into the Alleys, even if I'd like to."

"Talkin'." Marek shook his head again, disgusted. "They been talking for _days_."

"You should try it, sometime." Leo shot him a grin. "It's a different way of doing things, but Black's making progress, more than I thought anyone would. Anything else I should be adding, in the discussions? What have we got to offer, if Voldemort comes onto our turf?"

"Not much." Rispah blew out a heavy breath. "Numbers are down, with the Scar situation. He's been pickin' us off, Leo. We have forty people still in fighting condition, but we can't do anything more, not with Scar still on the loose. And you know it would never work. We can't work with Aurors, there are too many trust issues, and most of us aren't trained, not like they are. No formal schooling, and our wands, for those of us who even have them, aren't ideally matched. Tell them we'll keep an ear out down here. We can pass on anything we hear down here."

Leo sighed in return, taking a swig from his new tankard of ale, which Phillip had just delivered. "No, you're right. I'll raise the refugee issue. Think I should raise the Scar issue? I wasn't sure it was related, but it's a reason why we can't do more, and they can make of it what they want. Voldemort could be related."

Rispah exchanged a look with Marek, thinking it over. Marek shrugged – he didn't like questions like these, which were a little more divorced from everyday practical problems. Rispah clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I think that's up to you, Leo. I don't see the harm in it – I don't think they'll care, honestly – but maybe you should. It's also a reason for them to leave us out of the refugee picture. We're just managing to take care of our own, right now. We can't take in more."

Leo nodded. "I'll think about it, then. See if it comes up naturally, or I'll work it into the refugee route discussions. Thanks, Rispah, Swift. Any word from Harry?"

"You're welcome, as always, Leo." Rispah smiled back, tilting her head slightly in a move that Leo knew was very effective on her admirers. "And nothing new. Our message got through, I know that much, but no reply yet."

"Thanks, Rispah." Leo sighed, stretching his neck a little. He was getting old – he could feel something in his upper back pop. "Appreciate it, as always."

"Finish your ale and go sleep, Leo." She smacked him on the shoulder, cheerful. "We'll hold the fort here, while you play at bein' a politician."

The Alleys were quieter – quieter than usual, in a way that Leo did not like. The Alleys were a strange place. If things were good, the Alleys were loud. People were out on the streets, chatting, arguing, getting in brawls, and causing trouble that he or Marek or one of his other lieutenants would have to go sort out. It was only when things were bad that things were quiet like this. People were only quiet when they were scared, when they decided to hide indoors with their families rather than go out. It wasn't a good sign.

But it was normal now. This had just been the state of the Alleys over the past year, and with time, Leo was finding it harder to remember the earlier times. There was nothing he could do about it that he hadn't already been doing, that he hadn't already tried to do, so he kept a wary eye about him heading home.

It was too quiet.

His apartment wasn't far from the Dancing Phoenix. He could have taken rooms at the Phoenix, of course, and many past Rogues had, but Leo liked his independence. His apartment was small, only a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom and a bedroom, plainly furnished, but it was his. Sometimes, he wondered if he _shouldn't_ just get a room at the Phoenix – he was there all the time anyway, and it wasn't as if he used his kitchen or sitting room at all – but he always felt good, walking into his own apartment, so he could never really regret it.

He didn't have anything at home, but it was fine, because he had two tankards of ale and a pot pie in him and he was exhausted. Who would have thought that days of treaty negotiation would be so exhausting? He had had days of fighting that weren't so exhausting, and all he was doing at Black's meetings was sitting, listening, taking notes, occasionally throwing in a comment of his own. He wasn't physically active at these meetings, but there's was something exhausting nonetheless about them, something draining about the need to pay close attention to what everyone had said, and to what no one was saying.

He shut the door behind him, twisting his wand to set his alarm spells – not only on his own apartment, but there were a few down the street, as well. Leo liked having forewarning of anything happening and his first alarm spells, at the corners to his little block, would give him an extra five minutes of time. In a situation of emergency, an extra five minutes could mean the world.

It was those alarms that woke him first. His wand, and his magic, blaring like a siren and burning in his chest, told him to wake up, to get up _now_. His life was about trusting his instincts, and he rolled out of bed, snatching his wand from his nightstand, falling towards his window, one hand reaching for the latch.

A dragon swept down the street, its mouth open in a silent roar. It didn't need to make sound, not over the crackle of flames that Leo could see already consuming the Alleys. It couldn't make noise anyway, because it wasn't a real dragon, and there were other shapes, chimaeras and giant serpents, griffins and giant eagles, forming and springing their way through the cobblestone streets. They were made of flames, red with flashes of green, violet, and blue, the frontrunners of the fire that licked and ate the Alleys that he loved.

"Fire!" Leo's wand was out, and he cast the loudest Caterwauling Charm he could manage, then a Wailing Charm just for good measure. He didn't know if they would be enough—

No. He _knew_ they wouldn't be enough. He couldn't cast anything powerful enough to hit all the districts, and that was for people who hadn't already been overcome. This wasn't just fire, but _Fiendfyre_, alive and sentient and hungry with only one, overriding goal: to consume. Water, whether enchanted or not, wouldn't do more than slow the flames. There was a Charm that could stop Fiendfyre, but Leo didn't know it. And even if he did know it, these flames covered too much of the Alleys, and he didn't have the magical power for it.

He raised his wand, thinking about Harry, thinking about lunch in the courtyard of the Dancing Phoenix, thinking about afternoons spent rolling in the dirt teaching her how to free duel. "_Expecto Patronum!_" he roared, and his coyote erupted from his wand, leaping into the air. "Message. The Alleys are on fire – Fiendfyre. Wake up, we need to work!"

The first coyote went to Marek, the second to Rispah, the third to the Maywell Clinic. The fourth went to Old Solom, the fifth to Aled Flint, the sixth to Will Weasley. Coyote after coyote went out, to anyone that Leo could think of, to anyone who might be able to help, to anyone who might know the Charm to stop Fiendfyre.

He needed to buy time for his people to run. The Alleys burned too easily, too many buildings made of wood, and fire was a danger even without Fiendfyre. But Fiendfyre was a complication; Fiendfyre was something that the Alleys could not put out with just water, Fiendfyre was made by magic and could only be ended by magic. Advanced magic, to Leo's knowledge, and likely advanced _Light_ magic. Not his magic, not magic that most people in the Alleys would ever have the opportunity to learn.

He didn't have time to learn a new Charm now, if he could even find the counter-spell for Fiendfyre.

He hesitated, and his last coyote went to Arcturus Rigel Black. Black wasn't Harry, but Black had once offered his help, with anything, no strings attached.

And Leo needed help. Leo needed all the help he could get, because his Alleys were burning.

Then he tore out of his apartment, bolting down the street, heading towards the Dancing Phoenix. He would see who he had, who had come to his call, and set up a command centre for further action.

XXX

_ANs: I know I'm early even for me, so blame (or thank?) COVID-19. It doesn't mean more or faster updates, unfortunately, because I'm in an essential service position, so I just get to work from home a bunch, but there you have it. Fun facts about this chapter-after I wrote the Chess talking to herself about how no one could meet her at the gate anyway because security, I learned that in the pre-9/11 era, this actually was a thing that people could do! 9/11 really changed how we handle airport security. Yes, Aldon is a bit of a tool in this chapter, but let's all remember he just turned 19, and he's being told to walk into enemy territory where he knows perfectly well that people won't like him, and judging by Neal's experience with Queenscove, he's probably doing it all with a magical backlash headache. _

_Thanks always to my wonderful beta-reader meek_bookworm (and I'm sorry I can't fly to visit you now *cry*), and to everyone else who reads, reviews, or comments! Remember, reviews are writing fuel, so looking forward to hearing your thoughts! Oh, and for those of you who prefer AO3, I am actively cross-posting now on AO3, so choose your platform at your leisure!_


	3. Chapter 3

Archie woke up, shielding his eyes from the bright light now in his bedroom. It was a Patronus, a coyote, glowing white, and he scrambled upright.

"Black. You said once that if we needed anything, we could reach out to you and you would try to help, no strings attached. Well, the Alleys are on fire – Fiendfyre – so if there's anything you can do, please. We need it."

Archie fumbled for his wand, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, focusing hard for his own Patronus. They had covered Patronuses last year in Defense, so at least he knew how to cast one. He thought about afternoons at AIM with Hermione, about moments on stage with the theatre troupe, about dancing with Hermione at the Spring Fling last May. He thought about the end to that night, when they had fallen into her bed, kissing until his lips had felt swollen and numb, just kissing, until they fell asleep wrapped around each other.

His terrier jumped into being, ears alert. Archie didn't know a lot about Fiendfyre, only that it was Dark, it was deadly, and it was a spell often used for war. Dad would know more, and Uncle James, and Lina Avery. Maybe Neal would know something, too. And they would need Healers, so he had to call Hermione, too. "Leo. I'm calling people, and we're on our way, as soon as we can."

Then he ran down the hallway, yelling for his Dad, at the top of his lungs.

It still took almost thirty minutes for him to get to the Lower Alleys. Thirty minutes, and even rushing, they were among the first ones there. Uncle James was on his way, as was Uncle Remus, and Neal and his mother, and Aldon was gathering people too. Lina was a Stormwing, and Dad said that meant she was a crazy mercenary witch who would sell her talents to the highest bidder, but she would know Fiendfyre. Aldon said he had another Defense Mistress on staff with Blake & Associates as well, and he would be on his way as soon as possible.

Thirty minutes was too long. Thirty minutes, and Archie could see the flames rising in the distance, smoke climbing in spirals above the facades of the buildings in Diagon Alley. Hermione was waiting, pale-faced in the dark, standing in front of the turn into Knockturn Alley.

"We have refugees," she said quietly, her brown eyes worried. "People have been running – I've directed them to stay in Craftsmen's Alley for now, unless the fire spreads. I don't know the counter-spell for Fiendfyre, and neither does anyone I've been able to see, so – so I've just been treating injuries. Burns, mostly, and smoke inhalation."

"Fiendfyre is advanced Dark magic," Dad said in reply, shaking his head. "Have you seen Leo?"

"Only glimpses." Hermione pressed her lips together, but Archie could see from the look in her eyes that she was holding back tears. It was bad, then – Hermione didn't cry easily. "Archie – it's… I don't know what can be done. I don't know what _anyone_ can do. They're just holding it back right now, no one knows the counter-spell for Fiendfyre. Aroma Alley is already gone, and so many – so many neighbourhoods…"

"I know the counter-spell." Dad's voice was grim as he hurried down the Alleys. "I can't cast it very well, because it's a Light spell and I'm Dark, but James can do it. I'll see if I can teach anyone the counter-spell, get people casting it as much as they can. Archie, Hermione – stay here. We'll keep sending anyone running to Craftsmen's Alley, and you do what you two do best, and set up for any emergency Healing, all right?"

"_Shit!_" Archie turned to see Aldon, Lina, Chess and another dark-haired, dark-eyed woman running down Knockturn Alley towards them. Lina had a blade on her, and she had already pulled it out, and her sleeve was up. "Even if we have a Light caster, we can't control flames like this – it's too far out of control, Sirius. You know it. We can buy time, but I can't – no one can. Who is in charge, here?!"

"Leo Hurst is the Rogue of the Lower Alleys," Archie spilled out, turning to face her. Lina's hair was tied up, a rough knot at the back of her head, and she had left her guns behind. "He's – I haven't seen him, yet."

"He's been in and out, getting people out of the fire and trying to set up firebreaks," Hermione supplied, tying her own hair into a knot, without a tie. The texture of her hair would keep it up, but Archie would have to help her untangle it later. "The counterspell is advanced."

"And Light. I'm too Dark for this." Lina shook her head. "It's out of grasp for me. Francesca and Aman here are Light, they can cast the spell, but we don't have the power for this – no one does."

"But – but I don't know the spell," Chess stuttered, visibly upset and terrified, Aldon at her side. "And I don't – I don't have a _wand_. I – why am I here?"

"Because you're a two on Erlich's scale," Archie heard Aldon reply, calm, an open book in hand. "I have the spell here – I can't cast it, but I think I can translate it into proto-runic form for you, if this theory is correct."

"The proto-runes will degrade – I don't have an ACD!" Chess was wailing, but Aldon gripped her shoulder, hushing her as he reached in a pocket and pulled out a small notebook. The other woman, who Archie assumed was Aman, already had her wand out and was heading further into the Alleys, towards the flames. She must be the Defense Mistress that Aldon had mentioned being on staff at Blake & Associates, Archie realized.

"I've got enough paper and I'll write the spell out as many times as we need to, Francesca, until it works. We'll deal with it. I can't cast the spell, I'm too Dark." Aldon didn't take a single look at Archie or Hermione, focused as he was entirely on Chess. "Please."

Chess bit her lip, sniffling, but she nodded. Aldon let her go, pulling out a pen with his other hand, beginning to scribble something in his notebook as he walked her closer to the towering flames.

"I'm here." Archie turned to see Uncle James running down the Alley, Uncle Remus behind him, their wands already out. "Where are the _Aurors?!_ There should be an outpost, three blocks south from here, down Kingsgate. For something like this, they should be calling in everyone on-call!"

A shape staggered out from the end of the street, the silhouette barely distinguishable against the bright, blinding flames. There were a dozen dark shapes, casting Blasting Curses at the buildings nearby for firebreaks, not that it seemed to do much. Aman was there by now, her wand at play, and large pillars of fire were smoking out of existence.

It wasn't enough. Each of Aman's spells were taking care of half a building, one building, not the twenty, thirty blocks or more that Archie could see already that the fire stretched. He watched as Lina threw herself in the fray, her blade already against her wrist – there was no form to what she was doing, no spell, but blood spilled and the fire on three buildings calmed, fizzled, and the shapes in those sections turned back. She was grappling control over the flames.

Archie swallowed the bile from his throat, turning to the new shape, to Leo staggering out of the maelstrom of hot fire and ash.

"The Auror outpost is empty," he snarled at Uncle James. "It went up in flames half an hour ago – it was the starting point of the Fiendfyre on this stretch. No one is there, and the Ministry is empty, too. It's _almost_ as if they were in on it."

Lina has turned back from the flames that she was now holding, her breath ragged. "Sirius, you're Dark – ever done any blood magic? It's more effective for this than anything else we can do, get control over the fire, halt its forward motion, turn it back for someone else to put out. Aldon, hand him your knife and let your girl draw power from you instead, your oath should let her do it if she needs it enough."

"I don't do blood magic, Lina," Archie heard Dad shouting back. "It's – it's—"

"Oh, don't pretend like you aren't already an Erlich six, at least, Sirius," Lina snapped, looking up as she pressed her blade a second time against her arm. The flames on two other buildings nearby paused, flickered, and stilled – not going out, but no longer spreading, either. "You can only go a point darker, and Aldon should keep himself in reserve for Francesca to draw on. Aman, don't worry about these flames here, I have them – I'll hold the line here until someone can wipe them out."

The dark-haired woman nodded, turning her attention deeper in the Alleys. Archie saw Uncle James, white-lipped, joining her further in the flames. Leo was slipping on ahead, marking a trail into the heart of the Alleys, while Uncle Remus followed with a sharp expression of focus on his face. As a werewolf, he could tolerate the heat better, Archie realized, as they both began pulling out more coughing survivors. Aldon and Francesca were behind them, him handing her sheets of paper that she tried to use to beat back the Fiendfyre. They were less effective than Archie could have hoped – it took so long for Aldon to hand her each new spell that in the time that Aman and Uncle James cleared four or five buildings each, Aldon and Chess only beat back the flames on one. The fire spread back almost as fast as they could act.

"I won't cast blood magic, Lina." Dad's voice was a warning. "I'll teach the spell to anyone I can, and if someone can write me a runic screen—"

"_Tabernak!" _Another voice, and Archie didn't need to turn to see who it was. Only one person swore in Quebecois French, and he felt the blast of cold wind coming down the street, blowing the smoke back. "Maman—"

The rest of the sentence was in Mandarin, so Archie had no idea what was said, but Neal's mother had her fan in motion, carving a spell in the air, and the flames on the closest few buildings, the ones that Lina was holding, went out in a splutter of choked soot and ash.

"Let's go," Neal's mother said, nodding deeper into the Alleys. "Holding the line here does little. Come, Stormwing, and let us buy time for more people to run."

"You should follow them, Archie." Hermione touched his shoulder and handed him a handful of Blood Replenishers and Pepper-Up Potions. "Someone needs to go with them, handle emergency first aid, and direct people here for more Healing. Healer Hurst just got here with a few of the Healers from the Maywell Clinic, so we can handle the camp. Go on."

"Blood Replenishers?" Archie held up the small vials. "I would think it's mostly burns…"

"The Blood Replenishers are for Lina and Aldon," Hermione said, grim, nodding to the group at the end of the street. "Francesca can't keep up this pace, she doesn't have the magical power for it, and Aldon will almost certainly pull his knife before the hour is up, whatever Lina's orders. He's terrible at following orders. Pepper-Up for everyone else."

Archie grimaced. Blood magic was a touchy issue – only Dark witches and wizards did it, and it had an unsavoury reputation, but he couldn't deny that the few times he had seen someone use it, it had been incredibly effective. Now wasn't the time for squeamishness, though, and he turned to run down the streets after the others. "Be careful, 'Mione."

The flames were hot. It was nothing like being near a nicely banked, comforting fire at home, small and merrily dancing in the fireplace. These flames were sooty, hungry, too tall and too hot and too out of control, and Archie could almost feel the _hate _rolling off them as they tried to consume everything. This was Fiendfyre, which was sentient in its own enraged, destructive way, moving solely to burn everything in its path. He ran forwards, taking people from Uncle Remus and from Leo for emergency Healing as they pulled them out of the flames.

They were making progress. A little progress, but it was progress, and they beat it back one street, then two. Archie couldn't see anything, or everything – he caught glimpses of Chess, looking wan, while Aldon, too, was paler than usual. Contrary to Hermione's assessment, Aldon hadn't pulled his ritual knife, so Archie handed off two Blood Replenishers to Lina, who had six fresh cuts on her arm and didn't look to be stopping anytime soon.

He handed a Pepper-Up to Dad, who had a sheet of paper in one hand now, a runic screen to translate his magic into Light affinity so that he could cast the counter-spell. Dad had to cast two spells for every one that Aman or Uncle James cast and he was slow, slower than Lina who was taking control of two or three buildings at a time, waiting for the Lady Queenscove to extinguish them for her before she moved on, and much slower than Uncle James, Neal and Aman, who were leading the pack. Neal was a Light mage too, Archie remembered, and he realized he had never seen Neal battle with a wand rather than his blade. But fire wasn't something one could handle with a sword.

He tried to stop Leo a few times for emergency Healing, but the man only grabbed the offered Pepper-Up potion from Archie's hand and plunged back down another side alley. He and Uncle Remus kept pulling people, more and more of them, coughing, out of buildings and shoving them towards Archie. It was all Archie could do to give emergency treatment for smoke inhalation and the most severe burns, then direct them towards Craftsmen's Alley.

People died. Archie didn't see much of that, only a few dying under his watch after Leo had pulled them out, but he knew that people were dying. The survivors they were pulling out became fewer and farther between the more they pushed the flames back. Archie passed a few charred bodies on the street, people who must have succumbed to the smoke while trying to run, and he held himself back from vomiting.

He had seen worse, he reminded himself. The Darien Gap had been worse. He had seen death before.

But that death had been very different. That death had been sickness, not cursed fire – those deaths had not been wanton murder.

Uncle James was in the thick of it, he, Neal and the other Defense Mistress at the head of the phalanx pushing the flames back. They were the most effective, one of their spells often putting out whole buildings at the time. They were making progress, Archie reminded himself. They were _making progress_, and Archie couldn't afford to let himself think of the many, many blocks that had already gone up in smoke, he couldn't think about how much there was _left _to put out. He couldn't think about the people that must have already been lost, because the people being brought to him now were far more injured, even if there were fewer of them. There was a child, who looked only four, that Leo had pulled out with a pained look that told Archie that he hoped, but he feared to hope. The boy looked quiet, like he was only sleeping, no burns on him at all, but Archie could only shake his head and direct Leo to set him on the side of the street. He didn't even have a cloth or anything to cover the child.

There was the sound of a _fwump_, in the distance, and Archie gaped, exhausted already, as another spout of flame went up. That block had to be at least five or six streets away, but the fire moved so fast, ghostly flame-shapes racing from rooftop to rooftop, undoing all the progress they had made in the last hour.

It wasn't _fair_. All they were doing was beating it back, one building at a time, and all whoever it was had to do was set another Fiendfyre spell in motion. Fiendfyre would consume, would eat and destroy, until there was nothing left for it to burn at all. They were only one drop – one stopgap, one makeshift obstacle, and Archie was running out of magic.

He checked his pockets for a Pepper-Up, then he remembered that he had given his last one to Uncle James fifteen minutes ago. He turned, looking around – Aldon and Chess had stopped, and she was sitting on the ground, her head between her knees, and Aldon had his knife out. Archie couldn't see what he was doing – blood magic, obviously – but he wasn't grappling for control over the flames. There probably wouldn't be anyone to put out any fire he managed to control anyway, Archie realized. If he was running low on magic, even without casting the Light counter-spell, then so was everyone else.

Aman, too, had stopped, leaning over to catch her breath, and Neal's last few spells were spluttering, only taking out parts of a fire instead of whole buildings. Even Uncle James was slowing, and Archie looked for his Dad.

Dad had stopped too, staring up at the fire that still burned, a tight and angry look on his face. Lina was shaking her head, and Neal's mum, beside her, managed to put out one more building. Uncle Remus carried one more person out of the fire, a young woman with only minor burns, but Archie didn't need to do any magic to know that she was dead.

"Rogue." Lina's voice was a rasp. "You need to make a decision. These Alleys are magical space – you need to collapse them, close them off, let the Fiendfyre burn itself out before it catches to Craftsmen's Alley, or Knockturn, or the other Alleys that haven't gone up. You have the ward-keys, don't you?"

"I—" Leo said, then he cut himself off. "I have the ward-keys. How could I… There are people still here. Sealing it off is a death sentence – I can't—"

"You don't have a choice." Lina's voice wasn't unkind, but it was unequivocal. "If you don't, it will spread further, and we don't have the power to put it out. No one does – if Lord Dumbledore himself came down here now, he would likely only be able to save two or three streets. If it's any comfort at all, anyone beyond this point is likely already dead. Lord Potter, how much do you have left? Neal? Aman?"

"Two spells, I think," Neal croaked, dark soot marking his face and covering his clothes. "I can… push for maybe two buildings."

"Only one, for me." Aman's voice was softer than Archie had expected. He had always thought people with a Defense Mastery would be like Dad, or like Uncle James – loud, with big, brash personalities and a certain swagger. She didn't carry any of that, and her voice was almost apologetic when she spoke. "One big one, but I'm nearly out."

"Lord Potter?"

Uncle James shut his eyes, thinking it over with a grimace. "Maybe three, more likely two. Sirius?"

Dad only shook his head, waving the piece of parchment he was holding. "Nothing. I'm out."

"Where's your closest ward-stone, Rogue?" Lina took a few steps closer to Leo, her expression stiff but determined.

There was a pause before Leo spoke, and the words twisted out of his mouth as he responded. "Over there, about half a block down. Let me – let me warn who I can, first. There are alarm spells I can invoke, it'll just be – a few more minutes."

"That's fine. Where are the break points?" Lina pushed. "I don't know this ward-space well enough. Do you have control over where you can cut off? Will some of us need to stay in reserve to put out anything left behind?"

Every word looked like it was costing Leo something to say. He didn't look well, but Archie didn't think this was a sort of Healing he could provide. This was Leo being asked to decide who lived and who died, what part of his Alleys he would sacrifice to save the rest, and Archie didn't feel like he could interfere.

He didn't know the spell, and even if he did, he was nearly out himself.

"I can take out Cherry Street to Kingsgate, then down Kingsgate to the end of the warded space," Leo replied finally, his voice dry and quiet, something lost and desperate in it. "There'll be a few buildings left out still on fire, but… it's the closest I can seal off."

"Then let's go." Lina turned, scanning for the others. "Mei Ling and I will get you there. Aman, Neal, Lord Potter – get ready to take out anything that's left. Aldon?"

"Half. I can help," Aldon said, picking himself up. Archie caught Chess making an aborted motion towards him, but she seemed to think better of it and pulled her hands back to herself. Aldon missed the movement, striding forward to meet Lina.

"Get control of the flames – smother them if you can, but these ones are stubborn. If you can't, hold them and wait." Lina turned back to Leo. "Lead the way, Rogue."

Archie held himself back, wiping his forehead. His hand came away with sweat and soot, and he had blood on himself, too. Not his own, he knew, because more than one of the people he treated had had open wounds, from the burns or from other accidents that happened as buildings came down. He walked over to Uncle James, his steps slow and tired.

"Is there – can I do anything to help?" he asked, a little timid. "I'm an Erlich one – if I knew the spell… I don't have much left, but I don't know how much power the spell takes, either."

Uncle James looked at him, grim-faced, and shook his head. "I don't think I could teach it to you in the time we have – Sirius tried with a few of the other volunteers, but it didn't take that well. If Rosier needs it, you can ballast me with whatever you have left at the end, if no one else gets to it first. I can't believe—"

Uncle James fell silent, his expression darkening, and he turned away to look at the flames still towering over them, not far away. The ghostly shapes of creatures – dragons, griffins, chimaeras, lions, eagles – rose up from the burning buildings, soaring over the deathly scene. They were beautiful, flashes of colour in the flames, but all Archie could see was the people that would be left for dead, the people that they weren't able to save, the people that had been murdered.

He didn't even want to guess how many people had died tonight. He didn't know many people in the Alleys, but Leo was here, and he hadn't seen Rispah, whom he had met, or Swift. Or what about Margo – did Margo live in this section of the Alleys? He hadn't seen her, but that didn't mean anything. He had seen so few people…

There was a loud blaring noise running through the air, so loud that Archie winced. It was unlike anything he had ever heard, an unearthly wailing sound, completely unignorable. He covered his ears, but the sound wasn't just in the air, but running through magic – he could feel his core vibrating in his chest, a sensation so uncomfortable he couldn't ignore it.

The sound went on and on, long minutes. As uncomfortable as it was, Archie could say nothing. If anyone was still alive in the Alleys beyond this point, this was their last signal to get out. This was a sound of fear, of sorrow, of desperation, and when it ended, Archie couldn't help but feel something breaking inside of him.

That was it. That was everyone.

"No!"

Archie barely remembered the voice, but he recognized her the minute he whipped around. Her voice was low, for a woman's, but still high compared to the man's voice that she had pretended to have for so long. Her hair was longer, tied up in a short ponytail bobbing at the back of her head, and she threw a broom on the ground and ran, heedless, towards the flames. Archie gasped, and his wand was in his hand, the _Petrificus Totalus_ spell on his lips before he knew it.

They were sealing off the Alleys now. She couldn't do anything now, and even if she was fresh, even Harry didn't have the power for this – even Harry couldn't save twenty, thirty blocks or more. She wasn't all-powerful, and he rushed to her, throwing his arms around her.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself saying, as she shook off the spell. It hadn't been a very good _Petrificus Totalus_, because Archie was pants at Defense, even when he wasn't bone-tired from Healing half the night. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but you can't go in. You can't go in, Harry, it's too late."

"What are they – they can't—" she stuttered, fighting him, but Archie was bigger than her now. Archie had height and weight on her, and he clung to her, using his entire body weight to drag her down. He heard a loud, grating noise, the sound of blocks of stone being thrown off, the rumble of an earthquake or a landslide. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see it, not wanting to know that they had just condemned hundreds, if not thousands, of people to their deaths to keep the Fiendfyre from spreading.

"I'm sorry," he kept saying, over and over again. "I'm sorry, we didn't have the power – no one has the power to put out this much Fiendfyre."

"If I was here—"

"Harry!" Uncle James' shout was a foghorn, and Archie hurriedly disentangled himself from his cousin, letting his uncle throw his arms around her. "Harry—I…"

He didn't have words after that, but Harry pushed him away after a few minutes, seeing Leo come out. The expression on Leo's face was terrible, horribly blank, his mouth twisted downwards in pain and his eyes haunted, and Uncle Remus quietly reached out to grab Uncle James before he could stop Harry going towards Leo. Leo needed this moment, more than Archie did, more than Uncle James.

"It's done," he heard Leo say, his voice barely audible over the sound of the flames still going, and Harry reached him, throwing her arms around him. "Cherry Street and down Kingsgate. It's gone. It's done. It's done, and everyone – everyone left inside – the Dancing Phoenix, and the Maywell Clinic—"

"Everyone within those bounds was probably already dead," Lina finished for him, her voice calm, and even if Archie thought what she was saying was probably true, it was not even halfway reassuring. "You did what you had to do, Rogue. Don't take this guilt on yourself. Leave it on the person who set the fucking fires. This fire was _set_, with the starting points being the Auror outposts, and no Ministry personnel came to the alarms. Any ideas?"

There was a long moment of silence, and Archie saw that Aman was putting out one last building, Neal beside her with his last few spells. Aldon was in front, his mouth a thin line as he drew his knife against one forearm and grappled with the flames on about four houses as blood welled and dripped to the ground. He was struggling to control them, four being a bit much, but that was nearly all the remaining flames. Neal's mum's was expressionless as she dredged up a few last spells to put last of the flames out.

That was almost all the remaining buildings he could see. What once was there, towering columns of hungry fire, rickety buildings and burning wood, was simply gone. Leo had sealed it off, torn it away into a separate space, until the fire could burn itself out. He caught sight of Chess, crouching down on the ground and picking something up near a building that had two bodies outside of it, one of them very small. Archie gulped, breathing through his need to throw up.

He wasn't normally queasy, but these people hadn't died naturally. These people had been massacred, because someone, somewhere, decided that whatever he wanted was worth more than their lives.

Uncle James shook his head, raising his own wand and casting the spells to take out the fires on the buildings that Aldon was holding. "The Ministry was in on it. They had to be – there are always Aurors on call, and these outposts are always staffed. It wouldn't be impossible to set _one_ on fire, but it should have been quickly stopped, long before it reached this kind of blaze."

"Scar," Leo muttered. There was only the hiss of recently doused fire in the air now, no more crackle and roar of flames, and he suspected all their hearing had been damaged. Leo was speaking louder than he thought he was speaking.

"Scar?" Lina repeated, her voice sharp, and Archie saw as Harry's hand gripped Leo's, tighter. "Who is Scar?"

Leo didn't reply, but Harry looked up. "Someone in the Alleys, who was fighting Leo for control for the last couple of years," she said, solemn and distant. "I – I don't know much. He almost killed Leo in a free-dueling tournament two years ago."

Leo shook his head, abrupt. "No one knows much. Marek tracked him to the Cesspool, but the trail went cold there."

"Hmm." Lina exchanged a glance with Aldon, who was looking distinctly unsteady, but Aldon nodded. "We debrief tomorrow, at the meeting. As long as you require it, Rogue, the Lord Rosier extends the hospitality of Rosier Place to you."

"No – no," Harry interrupted, her bright green eyes seeking Archie's. "Leo can stay with us, or with Arch. Dad?"

Uncle James looked like he was fighting himself for a moment, and then he sighed and gave up. "Yes, he can stay at Potter Place with us, Harry. For tonight. Tomorrow, we'll talk."

Leo shook his head. "No – I need to be with my people, in the Alleys. This is – this is where I belong, here, with any survivors. I need to see who survived, I need to look for my friends, my family. Organize shelter, food for the survivors. Healing."

"I'll stay with him, Dad," Harry said, the decision made in an instant, and Archie knew there was no arguing with her, not when she had that look in her eyes. Even years later, Archie would always recognize that look. "Go home without me. I'll be fine here. No one will be looking for me yet, and we're all illegal now anyway. I need to be here, with Leo."

Aldon hobbled over, his arm still dripping blood, though he didn't seem to have noticed. He rested one hand on Leo's shoulder, his knife sheathed. "I will make inquiries with my spies, and we'll plaster this all over _Bridge_. These people, they will not die unremembered, and their deaths will not be in vain. Harriett."

"Aldon," Harry acknowledged uncertainly, with a small tilt of her head.

Aldon looked very awkward for a moment, then he inclined his head. "Draco Malfoy is in my care at Rosier Place. You are, of course, invited to visit with him any time you wish, though I caution you that I do have strict rules at my residence, for our safety during these difficult times."

"Thank you." Harry paused, studying Aldon for a moment. "I'll do that. It will be good to see Draco again."

Aldon nodded stiffly, turning to search for Chess. She was holding something in her hands, but Aldon went to her without comment, reaching an arm out. She grabbed it with only a moment of hesitation, and they were gone in the whirl of Side-Along Apparition.

"We should head back," Lina said, shaking out her shoulders. "Unless there's something else out here that urgently needs to die, I'm going to go sleep. I will see everyone tomorrow."

She walked away, taking a few minutes before she could turn on the spot and Apparate, and the other Defense Mistress, Aman, followed with a small, sorrowful smile a minute later. Archie watched her disappear, then looked towards Leo and Harry.

"Let me take you to the Healing camp," Archie said, his smile weak and not at all happy. "I'm – I'm almost out, but I'll do what I can. Neal?"

Neal shook his head, his eyes dark in regret, as his mother joined him. "I'm dry. Barely enough to Apparate home. Sorry."

Uncle James and Uncle Remus were already standing with Leo and Harry, saying something about logistics, but Leo was blank-faced and didn't seem to be listening. From the terrible expression on his face, he didn't seem to be capable of processing what they were saying. Dad touched Archie on shoulder, motioning with a silent tilt of his head the route back to the camp, and Archie nodded, leading the way to the makeshift camp in Craftsmen's Alleys. His uncles would make sure that Leo and Harry followed.

The camp had more than eighty people lined up in a neat grid, but to see it only brought a renewed sense of overwhelming sorrow and despair.

These were the survivors. There had been a vibrant community here, in these Alleys. Archie hadn't known it very well, but it had been here, hundreds or thousands of people living side by side, building homes, living lives, raising families. People had lived here, laughed here, loved here. And these hundred-odd people were the survivors, and they couldn't be more than a tenth of the people that had once lived here.

XXX

Aldon staggered, hitting the ground heavily near the outer wards to Rosier Place. He was drained, an odd feeling considering he had cast only a little of his own magic, but Francesca had pulled on his core, on his magic, for half the night. He had given her as much as he could without reserve, and she was supporting herself on his magic, though he wasn't sure that she knew she was doing it. She needed it, and his magic had acted, helped by a small blood spell to ease the transition.

It wasn't a good feeling, but a hard, painful, sucking sensation as she siphoned off whatever she needed from his core. That didn't matter. He would go through worse for her, and his core would recover. She had exceeded her maximum limits for casting magic tonight, and she would be relying on whatever she could draw from him for her survival until her own core could recover, which would take at least a few hours.

He looked down at her. She was expressionless, her face covered in a few streaks of soot, and her movements were wooden. She was carrying something in her hands, and Aldon took a closer look at it.

It was a Puffskein, covered in soot and ash and making a sad, snuffling, keening noise. He couldn't even tell what colour it was, it was so dirty, and Francesca's hands were covered in the same dark ash.

"A Puffskein?" he asked, and his voice didn't sound right. It was lower than usual, rasping, and he cleared his throat, tasting dirt and ashes and the copper tang of blood. He wanted to spit, but that would be impolite.

"Is – is that what this is?"

Francesca didn't sound much better, and she coughed twice, deep coughs from her chest. Smoke inhalation, Aldon realized. He should have asked Archie to look at her before they left. He would have to see who was at Rosier Place who might have Healing training of some kind – he didn't think they had any at Blake & Associates, at least. It was likely fine, he thought, because surely if she had been that injured, Archie or Neal would have noticed before they had Apparated home. But he should have asked.

"I found it," Francesca was saying, sounding miserable, and Aldon pulled his attention back to her. "It was rolling out of one of the buildings, and it was – it was crying, and it was alive, and everything else around me was—"

She fell silent for a moment, and she reached up, smearing ash across her face, wiping away tears. "Is it a problem? If it's a problem, I'll give it to Rolf. Rolf likes creatures."

Aldon shook his head. He didn't know much about Puffskeins, other than the fact that they were fur balls that liked to be thrown, that they purred when they were happy, and that children liked them. They were low maintenance pets, and absolutely not the sort of dangerous creature that Ed, or Alice, or even Pansy had ever been interested in. They were considered positively _boring_, as magical creatures went, largely because the only thing magical about them was that they found their own food and handled their own excrement. "It's – no, of course it's not a problem. It's only a Puffskein. We'll clean him up, see what colours he has in his fur. Some breeders like to breed for colour, or fur texture."

And with that, Aldon's sum knowledge of Puffskeins was exhausted. He never liked creatures anyway, not unless Ed liked them. Then he had largely pretended to like them, or he had been indifferent, and Ed had never once shown an interest in Puffskeins. The only reason he knew about Puffskein breeders was that he had reviewed an application for funding for a Puffskein breeder through the Rosier Investment Trust some summers ago. They had rejected the application, because specialty Puffskeins didn't seem like something that would be commercially successful.

"Is it a him?" Francesca looked down at the small creature. "How can you tell?"

Aldon had no idea. He didn't even know if Puffskeins had a biological sex. They all looked the same, not that he had seen enough Puffskeins to be able to tell them apart, other than obvious things like colour.

"Let's just call it a him, for now," Aldon suggested instead, looking down at Francesca with a weak half-smile. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, and even with the soot smeared across her face, she was stunning. He swallowed roughly, looking away, reminding himself to keep his hands to himself. "It seems rude to call him an it, just because we don't know. I don't think he minds."

"Okay," she said, and she didn't raise any issue as Aldon walked her back to her room in the guest wing. He paused, a moment, at her open door as she walked in.

He shouldn't enter, not without an invitation and a chaperone, but Francesca didn't look well. Her movements were stiff, mechanic, not at all like her usual grace, and she walked into her outer parlour and stopped, looking around. The expression on her face was frighteningly blank, even with the tear tracks in the soot. She wasn't crying, or maybe she was – tears were leaking from her eyes, but she wasn't sobbing, and her breathing stayed even, almost as if she didn't know she was crying. She clung to the Puffskein, which was still keening, frozen in the centre of the room. Her clothes, now that Aldon saw them in the light, were covered in soot and ashes, and her stockings were torn. She didn't seem to know what to do with herself.

She was still beautiful.

"Francesca…" Aldon breathed out slowly. "Are you… all right?"

"Fine," she said, and Aldon didn't need his gift to know that she was nowhere near fine.

"May I… come in?"

She didn't reply, but there was a tiny jerk of her shoulders in response.

"I will… take that as a yes," Aldon said slowly. "Unless you advise me otherwise."

She didn't respond, and Aldon took a few slow steps into her rooms. He turned her to face him, his hands gentle, but she didn't meet his eyes. He leaned down a little to look her in the eyes; they were glassy, dark, a little lost, and the Puffskein in her hands was still crying.

Shock, he guessed, not that he knew anything, but it would make the most sense. He should be in shock too, but he supposed that, having lived through the Tournament, been possessed by Justice, fought a duel and having secured his own manor the night of the coup, the bar for shock for him was a little higher. Or perhaps it was only that, with Francesca in front of him, he didn't think he had the luxury of being able to go into shock. For all he knew, he would go into shock later.

He had no relationship with anyone in the Lower Alleys. That didn't mean he didn't appreciate how many people must have died tonight.

"Let's get him cleaned up," he said, gently directing Francesca to the bathroom. His brain was screaming at him the improprieties of this situation, but he firmly told that part of his brain to shut up. She needed him, and if that meant he needed to walk into this bathroom and help her clean off a very sooty Puffskein, then his sense of propriety could go hang itself. All of Society, or what was left of it, could go hang itself.

He took the Puffskein from Francesca and set it on the counter in the bathroom. His sleeves were already rolled up, to cope with the heat in the Alleys and for blood magic, and he saw that one of his cuts was still sluggishly bleeding. He washed his own hands, and his arm, letting black ash and blood drain down the sink, and he left it at that. His cuts would heal on their own, another few scars to showcase his newfound and apparently inescapable identity as a Dark blood mage, and he had more important things to worry about.

Could Puffskeins go underwater? He had no idea. They were supposed to be hardy creatures, right? That was why they liked being thrown, and why children liked them. Children were not generally gentle with creatures, but at the same time, sticking a non-aquatic creature underwater was a very different thing than playing Quidditch with it.

Of all the things Aldon did not want to do, it was accidentally drown Francesca's new pet in front of her. He decided it was better to play it safe, and only half filled the sink with warm water, just enough for most of the Puffskein to stay above the waterline. He gingerly placed the creature into the sink, breathing a silent sigh of relief when the Puffskein kept crying and the water seemed to do him no harm whatsoever. Indeed, the creature splashed a little in the water, rolling about, and the water quickly turned grey.

Aldon motioned for Francesca to come closer. It took a few more sinks of warm water and soap, and a fair bit of scrubbing on both his and Francesca's part, but the Puffskein turned out to be a mottled pink, with a hint of sparkle. It was starting to blow bubbles at them, and making a purring noise that Aldon suspected was happiness, gratefulness, or pleasure. He handed Francesca a dry hand towel.

"You may as well keep him," he said, his voice rusty. The only communication he had had with Francesca over the last forty minutes or so had been in the form of gestures: handing her a damp cloth, passing her a bar of soap, motioning for her to wash her face and hands and making room at the small sink for her to turn on the faucet, to drain the sink and refill it with clean water. She, too, had been silent, following his directions without comment.

Her face and hands were clean now, and absently Aldon realized that he had never seen her without makeup before. Her eyelashes weren't as long or as dark as he had thought, but her eyes seemed even larger, more luminous, and she looked younger than she ever had before. Her clothes were fit for only scrap, or at least the stockings were, but Aldon thought that she could be dressed in rags and he would still be floored.

If she would let him, he would give her full reign over his rather substantial assets and let her clothe herself however she wished. The Rosier family vault was full, his personal accounts had a healthy amount in them now, and the Rosier Investment Trust was still wholly owned by the Rosier family. He could buy her a hundred new and more appropriate wardrobes, if she wanted them – silk robes and satin dresses, cashmere sweaters and cardigans, stockings made of the finest material money could buy.

He realized he was staring and looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

The Puffskein looked much smaller and stranger when wet. For something to do, he picked the small creature up and tucked it carefully into the towel in Francesca's hands. "Do you want to give him a name? His owners are likely dead, so..."

She nodded, absent, looking down at the sad-looking creature. He blew a bubble at her and made a chirping noise. Aldon had not done a very good job washing the soap off of him, and he could see the filmy residue still stuck on the Puffskein's fur, but he had rinsed it about three times before simply giving up. His fingers were wrinkled from being in water for too long, and soap would probably not harm a Puffskein anyway. He hoped.

"Bubbles," she said eventually, her voice quiet. "I think – Bubbles."

Aldon nodded, the bathroom feeling too small and close without something for him to focus on. He leaned back against the counter, propping his hands against the ledge. "Bubbles is a fine name," he offered, trying to figure out what he should do next.

He should leave. He should at least not be in this bathroom with her. If he wanted to be entirely proper, there was a line somewhere in the doorway to these guest rooms, and he had crossed it when he walked inside without a chaperone and shut the door. But she wasn't fine, and she had needed help, and he had asked if he could enter and she had agreed. Or, to be more accurate, he had interpreted a motion as agreement and asked for her to tell him to go if she didn't want him there, which she hadn't done. She hadn't said a single word of protest about the fact that he was here, in her bathroom, or in her rooms.

Here was the good thing about propriety. It gave him rules that were clear and easy to follow. Do not talk to girls late at night without the explicit permission of her parents. Do not be alone with girls past a certain hour without a chaperone, particularly without permission of her parents. It would be wise to avoid being alone with a girl at all times, but if the situation is unavoidable, at least leave the door open lest her reputation be harmed. If interested in someone, intentions must be declared and a formal courtship, preferably in the context of a betrothal, is the most respectful and appropriate method to explore that interest. And do not, absolutely _do not,_ engage in any sexual relations before or outside of marriage.

Aldon had broken a lot of those rules. In fact, he was fairly certain that the only one of those rules he hadn't explicitly broken as far as Francesca was concerned was the one about sexual relations, but he had kissed Francesca four times at a very public event, which he figured was close enough. With Francesca, strangely, it was the one time that he had tried to do the right thing that had gotten him into the most trouble.

But without the rules, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. The rules of propriety said that, having now been alone with Francesca past two in the morning in a closed guest wing with a shut door, her father, John and half the Queenscoves should be out for his head and he would have to marry her post-haste or face death by duelling, but that was clearly not the right answer. He wished that someone had given him a book to follow – whatever the Americans used instead of _Etiquette for All Occasions_ would have been an ideal birthday present from someone. He would have much preferred it over the _birthday beat_ that Neal had deemed it appropriate to give him instead.

"Er—" Aldon cleared his throat again. "Do you need anything further from me? Do you wish me to remain here with you, or do you wish me to leave? I can – please. Tell me what you want me to do."

There was a long pause, and Francesca's eyes were still stuck on her new pet. Bubbles was purring in the nest of towels Aldon had pressed him in, his pink fur now stuck in every which direction.

"You should – it's late," Francesca said, her voice very soft and hesitant. "You have a meeting tomorrow. You should sleep. I should – I should shower. I'm gross."

Aldon started nodding, straightening from his position against the bathroom counter, but then he stopped, his gift ringing. There was something she wasn't telling him, and it was then that he realized that she hadn't answered his question. She had said that he _should_ go, but not that she wanted him to go.

"Forget about what I should do, Francesca," he replied, stopping in the doorway and turning around. "If I miss a few hours of sleep, I will recover. What do you want, right now? What can I do for you?"

The pause this time was even longer, and Francesca's words quiet, halting. "I want a shower, and then – and I don't want to be alone. I want—" She cut herself off with a deep breath, and Aldon felt the rumble in his core that told him that she was lying by omission. "And then I want a cup of tea, and then I want – I want you to stay with me until I fall asleep."

She fell silent, her eyes glued to a spot in on the bathroom wall across from him, embarrassed.

Aldon wondered for a second if he should push her on what she wasn't saying, but the rest of her words had been true. He hesitated, then he cleared his throat again. She had said that she wanted him to stay with her, so perhaps what she was hiding wasn't important, or perhaps he didn't want to hear it. Perhaps wanting him to remain was good enough – he did not, he decided, want to know if he was only second-best, a replacement for someone who wasn't there.

"I'll brew a pot of tea," he said, the words coming out more awkward and abrupt than he had expected. "It'll be waiting for you after your shower. And I'll stay with you until you fall asleep. What kind of tea would you like?"

"The – the camomile with milk." Francesca looked up at him then, and her eyes were wet. "I – thank you."

"It's nothing, Francesca." Aldon tilted a small, uncertain half-smile at her. "It's – whatever you need."

It was an odd feeling, sitting on her settee in awkward silence, a cup of tea in his hands. When they had spoken by communication orb, there had never been silence. They had always had something to say, about the ACD or about their daily lives or anything in the world. She had been curious about him, and he her, but all of that was months behind them. He didn't know what to say.

What did one say, at three in the morning after a night like tonight? What did one say when they had watched hundreds of people dying? What was Archie saying, or doing, or Neal?

He heard a small snuffling sound and felt something wet touch his shoulder. Glancing down, he saw that Francesca had fallen asleep, the expression on her face soft, and her hair was still wet as she leaned into his shoulder. Her legs were bare after her shower, and Aldon didn't dare think about what she had to be wearing underneath her thick, fluffy bathrobe. Instead, he focused on the Puffskein, Bubbles, now peacefully purring in her lap, on the hot cup of tea he had in his hands, and on the meaningless painting of peonies waving in the wind above the empty fireplace across from him.

One of his ancestors popped his head into the frame, taking a look at the scene. Francesca's head pillowed on his arm, Aldon as the sitting Lord Rosier allowing it, and it was past three in the morning at Rosier Place in her private chambers.

"That woman has completely gelded you," Darius Rosier told him, entirely amused. "I would call you an embarrassment to House Rosier, but truth be told, I have never had so much entertainment in my life or death. But you had best make her the Lady Rosier before her father and brothers come hunting. I don't like your chances in a duel, those newfangled Muggle weapons you have or not."

"Go to hell, Darius." Aldon sighed, checking on his core and reaching for his wand. Francesca had recovered enough that she wasn't siphoning magic off him anymore, and he had enough magic of his own that levitating her to bed was a simple enough task. He took a moment to pull the blanket over her, then to settle her new Puffskein on the pillow beside her.

Then he headed for the library. He had coded letters to write, and a statement to draft, and his own chambers would be far too much temptation to sleep.

XXX

Leo didn't remember falling asleep. He was, in fact, not sure he had actually fallen asleep rather than having been hexed into it. It took a moment for him to realize where he was, and what had happened.

The Alleys were gone. Almost a full third of the Alleys were gone: the Cesspool, almost all of Market District, two-thirds of Patten District. The Dancing Phoenix, the Maywell Clinic, Aroma Alley – they had all burned in the flames. And he had made sure they burned, until nothing was left, because he had been the one with the ward-keys.

He had been the one to seal off his Alleys, sacrificing some to save the rest.

He was looking upwards at brown canvas. A tent, he remembered – he, Harry, and the Healers had managed to get a small number of brown, canvas tents to keep the wet off the survivors for the night. He hadn't wanted a tent, but Harry had forced him into one anyway, saying that if anyone needed it, he did. He shouldn't have slept at all.

He hadn't found Rispah. Or Aled, or Solom. Margo and most of the children, who normally stayed close to the Dancing Phoenix at night, were nowhere to be found either. Marek had shown up, dirty and pale-faced and rasping terribly, near two in the morning, and as thankful as Leo was to see him, his smile and rough embrace were weak, because Marek's entire family lived within the fire zone that Leo had sealed away.

Had lived within it, he corrected himself roughly. Marek had croaked out that his sister had survived, but he had only shaken his head when Leo asked after his brothers, his nieces and nephews, his parents. His lady, Anci.

There were other groups of refugees, in other alleys near the fire zone. Even so, Leo guessed that they had lost more than a third of the overall population of the Alleys, but in the districts affected, Cesspool, Market, and Patten, he thought the number was well over three quarters. The fire had started in the poorest areas of the Alleys, the ones most susceptible to fire, the ones least likely to have trained witches and wizards who could put out the flames, and it had spread from there.

It had been set. The fires had been set – the evidence was clear as day. He had seen two Auror outposts go up in flames himself, the one on Kingsgate looking after the Market district, and the one in Patten district. The Cesspool must have gone up first, spreading like wildfire in the poorest neighbourhood of the Alleys, before the others.

None had gone off in Flash, or Highfields, or Unicorn. None of the wealthier, middle-class, primarily non-elite pureblood neighbourhoods had burned. Rispah's words from last night came back to him – those were the neighbourhoods most likely to support Voldemort's agenda, she had said. They were the ones who had been pureblood for generations, and yet hadn't broken into the upper classes. They were the ones who dreamed of making the upper crust, whereas the people in the neighbourhoods that burned were primarily preoccupied with daily survival.

Would those be among Rispah's last words to him?

He didn't want to think about that. She lived in the area he had sealed off, deep in Market district, and she hadn't responded to his Patronus last night. But Rispah didn't have a wand, had never had one, and he had _hoped—_

He had to get up. He had to move, and he couldn't stay in this cot all day. There were things to do, and he had to go back out there and let the survivors of the Alleys see him. He had to look for Rispah, for Aled and Solom, Krait and Ercole and Orem and Shem, and the children – Jason sometimes had to stay late at Eeylops Owl Emporium, out of the fire zone. He pulled himself upright, swinging heavy legs onto damp, dirty cobblestones, feeling a dull ache spread through his legs, his back, his shoulders.

"Leo?" Harry poked her head in the tent, her green eyes identifiable even though a very different face and hairstyle. Her eyebrows were pressed together in worry, and she sighed, seeing him awake. "You're awake. I'd like to let you sleep more, but we have a problem."

Leo laughed, a rasping, sick sort of noise. He had breathed too much smoke last night, and the Healers had been spread thin. His mother had forced a Healing spell on him anyway, though Leo had tried to redirect her to focus on others. He was fine, or as fine as he could be in the circumstances, and he had just signed the death warrant for anyone not already out of the fire zone so he wasn't sure he had merited a Healing spell. "We have a thousand problems right now. What is it?"

"Craftsmen's Alley is pushing us out." Harry's forehead creased in disapproval. "A bunch of Guild Aldermasters are here, demanding that we move. They don't want a hundred refugees dirtying their street and making it difficult for their members to get to the Guilds."

From the way she said it, with a bitter twist of her lips and deeply sarcastic, Leo knew that she was repeating words from someone, almost exactly. He swore, standing up. "Where the hell do they expect us to go?"

Harry shook her head, her pert nose wrinkled in barely hidden disgust. "I don't think they care, but Craftsmen's Alley is for Guild members and for people on Guild business only, they said."

Leo looked around, finding an old shirt and trousers laid out beside his bed. They were three years old, just old clothes he had left at home when he had moved out, but they were clean, and they were likely all that he had left. It was more than most of the survivors would have left.

"Who's there?" Leo pulled on the shirt, and reached for the trousers. "Tell me my father isn't among them."

"He's not. He's, er, arguing with the Potions Guild to let refugees stay in one of their unused dormitories. There are twenty beds in it, but if people don't mind sharing, he says he can host forty, though it will be a squeeze." Harry hesitated. "Your mum is also talking the Healing Guild into accepting a group of refugees, the most injured twenty or so, into the training hospice. It's the Aldermasters of the Alchemy, Metallurgy, and Craftsmen's Guilds that are causing the most fuss. I think the Bracers Guild, the Farmers Guild and the Inns of Court are talking among themselves, and I haven't seen anyone from the Runes Guild at all."

Leo made a low noise of aggravation. _Damn_ it – even with his parents stepping in to argue with their own Guilds, that was only seventy-odd people. He had another almost thirty in this group alone, and Marek reported at least two other camps. There had to be more. Leo hoped there were more. But they all had to go _somewhere_, and he suspected at least some of the inhabitants of the other neighbourhoods would be having the same reaction as the Guilds.

"Let me talk to them," he snapped. "What time is it?"

"Just after eight in the morning. And, er—" Harry hesitated again. "Archie pushed back today's meeting to noon, I got an owl. He said he's putting refugee assistance at the top of the agenda for today and for me to make sure you were there."

"I don't have time for a noble negotiation meeting!" Leo snapped, grabbing his wand from beside the thin, flimsy pillow someone had given him. "Just—" He cut himself off, taking a deep breath, feeling a deep well of mixed anger and pain bubbling underneath the surface.

He couldn't show that to the survivors. He was the Rogue – he was the closest thing that these people had to stability, and he had to show that he was in control of himself. He couldn't afford anything else.

"I need to work out where people can stay," Leo finished slowly, forcing his anger below the surface. _Someone_ was responsible for burning his Alleys, and he would find out who, but for now he had to take care of who was left. "Tell your cousin I can't attend. I have too much to do here – these people will need supplies, food, clothing, and if the Fiendfyre has burned out, I need to see what's left. We need to make lists of the survivors, so people might be able to find each other, and then – then lists of people who didn't survive."

Harry paused. One hand reached out to touch his arm, and Leo recognized distantly that she was quite a bit taller than she used to be. Not as tall as her cousin, who would likely end up tall and rail-thin, but she didn't need to look far up at him, now. "Look, Leo—"

She stopped, her tongue flicking uncertainly against her lower lip, then she took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not going to pretend like I really understand Archie anymore. He's changed a lot from the person that he used to be, so I don't really understand what he's planning, or what he's doing, and I've been away for a year. But I can tell you that Archie is…" She thought for a moment, searching for her words. "Caring. Archie is caring, Leo. He's one of the most deeply empathetic people I know, and he'll try to do the right thing. If he says you should be there, I think you should go."

Leo's first thought was that Black didn't know the first thing about the Alleys. He was still a noble, and unlike Harry he was very much a _noble_, one who carried his nobility around him like a cloak. The first time Leo had seen him, he had been too clean, too elegant, clothed in finery that would have fed a family in the Lower Alleys for three months and completely unthinking. As well-meaning as Black might be, he was not of Alleys and had no relationship to the Alleys, and Leo couldn't imagine that anything Black might do would be of any real help.

Leo didn't need big, grandiose statements about war. He didn't need showy gestures of condolence. He didn't need people's sympathy or well wishes. Leo needed a place for hundreds of refugees to stay, and he needed food for them all. He needed clothing for them, and tents, and cots, and a thousand small toiletries like soap, toothbrushes, cups and towels and feminine hygiene products.

He didn't want to go and watch Black, or the Lord Rosier, or the Lord Dumbledore go and appropriate the tragedy of the Alleys for their own agendas.

But Black had come to help last night. Black had come through – he had come, and he had brought people who knew how to fight Fiendfyre. He hadn't asked for anything in return, and Harry trusted him. And there were things he needed, and if anyone would be prepared to listen to what Leo and the Alleys needed right now, Leo could only hope that it would be Black.

"I'll go," he said, abrupt, not liking it in the least. A place for hundreds of people to stay, food for them all, clothing and other necessities did not come cheaply, and he had to go to explain it. "Noon."

He pushed his way out of his tent, the flap snapping open with a loud clap, and strode over to the cluster of Aldermasters that he could see squabbling with his mother. She looked exhausted, and Leo didn't think she had slept, but she was holding her own.

"What is this about, then?" he asked, pitching his voice low in warning. "Explain."

It took him an hour and a half to sort out the Guilds, or at least to tell the Craftsmen's, Alchemy, and Metallurgy Guilds to go to hell. Or rather, the fact that the Farmers and Bracers Guilds had shown up and agreed to take the remaining thirty into their courtyards, pulling them off the streets, made it a moot point, at least for this group of survivors. He set one of the women in his camp, a young woman of about twenty who shyly introduced herself as Tuula Hayes, to making a list of names of the survivors for him.

He spent the rest of the morning finding the other camps. Marek led him to the camp he had been at, about four alleys over, which had about seventy survivors, and then he walked a circle around the fire zone, finding six more groups. He walked around, being seen, because even of people hadn't been in the Court of the Rogue, everyone knew who he was, or rather who he had been.

The Court of the Rogue had had the most presence in the three districts burned. There were people in the other districts that followed him and the Rogue's Law, but fewer of them and most of them were just informants. They worked in the Ministry, or the Floo Regulatory Authority, or other legitimate businesses but passed information to him when they could. They weren't his key lieutenants – he didn't find Rispah. He didn't find Aled, or Solom. He didn't find Krait, or Ercole, or Dawull, or Orem or Shem, or any of Rispah's ladies.

He didn't find Margo, or Cora, or Jason, or any of the children.

He spent the morning dealing with problems, setting people to taking names, getting numbers and assessing need. His was the only camp to have gotten any tents, and if he didn't correct that soon, then he would be looking at sickness. Most of the other camps hadn't had much by way of Healer support all night either, so the people in them were in worse condition. No one seemed happy about having the camps where they were, but each of those complainants had been much easier to cow than the Guilds had been. He set a point person on every camp – there was always someone, or a group of people, who had taken charge over the night, because someone had to take command and make decisions. They had all uniformly been relieved when he showed up, then promptly horrified when he put them in formal control of the camp, at least until other arrangements could be made.

There were three hundred and eighty-seven survivors. Three hundred and eighty-seven people who needed a place to stay, food, warm clothing, bedding, toiletries, and things he hadn't even thought about yet.

Potter Place looked different to him when he landed. The same high stone walls were there, with the same stone knights patrolling the grounds. The main building was stone, the grounds expansive with more than enough space for a hundred refugees.

He couldn't help but think that stone didn't burn.

The huge tent over the negotiation table, which had been set into a square with Black alone on one side, could shield forty of his survivors from the rain at night. Everyone else was already there, and Leo spotted easily the ones who had come to his aid last night.

Black himself looked no different, but there was a slowness to his movement that showed his tiredness. His girlfriend, Hermione Granger, was nursing a thermos of very black tea, while the Lord Queenscove and his mother had circles under their eyes. Lord Potter, too, was unusually silent, and the Lord Black's face was grim. The Lord Rosier didn't look tired, but there was a sharp alertness to him that made Leo suspect he had taken a few Wideye Potions or a lot of coffee. Only Lina seemed to show no effect of the night before. Leo was late, the last one there, which he figured was fine. He had been busy.

"Thank you for coming, Leo," Archie said, nodding to him in an understanding way which immediately put Leo on guard. "I know you are busy, but I wanted you here because we need to talk about refugee assistance in a very real way today, and we don't have enough experience with this. I need you to tell me what _you_ need."

Archie turned to the rest of the table. "For those of you who haven't heard, the Lower Alleys burned last night. Fiendfyre was set off at three Auror outposts, and it spread quickly. Leo, do you want to say anything more?"

Leo pushed away his anger, swallowing it. Black had said he needed Leo to tell him what he needed, and Leo had to play this stupid game to help the survivors. Shelter, food, supplies.

He fixed that mantra in his mind. Shelter, food, supplies. If he got those, these nobles could say whatever they bloody well wanted. "The neighbourhoods that burned were Cesspool, Market and Patten. They're the... least affluent areas of the Lower Alleys, and were the least able to defend themselves. They have a high proportion of Squibs, and there's no money for formal schooling. Very – very few people knew the counterspell for Fiendfyre. I have three hundred and eighty-seven survivors that need a place to stay, food, clothes…"

"Three hundred and eighty-seven out of how many?" Lina said, almost idle, and Leo fought the wave of anger at her attitude. Shelter, food, supplies, he reminded himself coldly. He could not fly off the handle here.

"The population of the Alleys was never well tracked," Leo snapped, his words sharper out loud than they had sounded in his head. "Rough estimate, three to four thousand dead. I don't know. I have eight makeshift survivor camps and people at every one making lists."

Lina nodded, accepting, and Leo didn't like the expression on her face. It wasn't sympathetic, but there was something almost like understanding in her eyes. Leo hated it, and he looked away.

The Lord Rosier cleared his throat. "I have some information, if you would like it."

"Aldon." Archie motioned for him to continue, and a quick glare silenced the Light faction Lords on the other side who were already muttering. "Go on."

"I sent an inquiry late last night to my spies in Voldemort's group, asking if they knew anything. I received a reply about an hour ago and only decoded it now." Aldon waved a sheet of parchment. Leo saw three neat rows of numbers, followed by a flowing hand. "Voldemort burned down the Alleys. Scar was his associate, helping him recruit, but it seems that Voldemort lost control of him. Voldemort is also aiming at legitimacy, so he was covering his history – I imagine Scar and others in the Lower Alleys had information about him that he did not wish to get out."

And three to four thousand dead was worth the price of that secrecy. Leo gritted his teeth, lest the thought escape him.

"How sure is your information?" The Lord Dumbledore's voice was thoughtful. "I am only asking as, with a tragedy of this scope, it would be all too easy for any one person to use it to sway sympathy for their chosen cause. We want Voldemort to be behind it because it suits us for him to be so – but that does not mean that it is so."

The Lord Rosier stared at the wizened wizard for a long moment, and his voice when he spoke was cool, even through the rasp of smoke inhalation. "I suppose, Albus, that it comes to a matter of trust. You either trust me, or you do not. I assume you either have none of your own contacts in Voldemort's group, or you haven't taken the time yet to verify with your own informants. It doesn't matter. House Rosier is prepared to act on this information, and any who are willing to trust me are invited to follow. I am done trying to convince a crowd of Light faction supporters, at every turn, of my trustworthiness. You would not have made such a comment to Neal, or to Raoul, or to Gareth."

"Aldon, Albus was only making a point." Black's voice was a warning, and the Lord Rosier raised both of his hands in the air – a gesture of surrender, but the man made it look as if it wasn't. "Thank you for that, both of you. We are getting side-tracked. The issue is refugee assistance, and we have almost four hundred refugees to feed, clothe, and shelter. With Voldemort in charge, we will have more. What are your suggested plans? Hermione, Patricia, why don't you begin?"

"The British International Association already noted an uptick of blood refugee claims in America, Canada, Germany and the Nordic Union over the past year," Patricia Ryan began, and Leo drowned her voice out as she began reciting numbers, handed to her by Hermione, and describing the various humanitarian programs available in different countries.

Leo didn't care. Not about how many blood refugees had been accepted in the past, not about the amount of influence that the stupid British International Association could use, not about possibilities. He needed help _now, _and the British International Association couldn't promise _now_. They had nothing to provide, only noise, and he didn't care to hear it.

Instead, he thought about Rispah. His cousin on his mother's side, or more likely a second cousin, Rispah had been with him his whole life. She was ten years his senior, and her sharp, sometimes dark, humour had lit up even his dreariest days. She had been the one to introduce him to Aled, his first free-dueling instructor, and to so many people in the Alleys, and she had been at his side when he challenged the last Rogue according to Rogue's Law. And she had been there, seven years running, his closest confidante and the Queen of the Ladies of the Rogue.

Aled. Leo wouldn't have called him a mentor, or a brother, or anything like that, but Aled had always supported him when he needed it. Aled had always been there, a steady presence – he had been one of the first to swing to Leo's side when he became the Rogue, regardless of his age. Whatever the day, whatever the situation, Leo could always trust Aled to bring a firm, pragmatic view to the table.

Margo wasn't sure how old she was, but his mum thought that she was probably around thirteen now. She looked younger, because she had been undernourished as a child, but Leo tried to make sure that all the children got enough to eat at the Dancing Phoenix after hours. They might not be his children, but they also _were_ his children, because they had no one else. He wasn't a parent to them, but maybe an older brother, or an uncle. He had had a responsibility to them, and instead he couldn't even get them out of the Alleys. When the time had come, he didn't even know where they were.

Solom. Krait. Ercole. Dawull. Harra. Orem. Shem. Kuri. Anci. He hadn't found them. He hadn't found any of them.

The Dancing Phoenix was gone. It had been a second home to him, ever since he had taken the Rogue's seat. The last Rogue had had a grand, throne-like chair at the head of the room; the first thing that Leo had done, fresh off his win in the trial by combat, was take it out to the street and torch it. He wanted to be a Rogue that was accessible to the public, to the Court of the Rogue, and he would sit at the same tables as everyone else. He was the Rogue because of what he did as the Rogue, not because he sat in a particular chair, demanding food and tribute and acting like the Lord of the Lower Alleys. Even if that was what the Rogue _was_ – the Rogue held the ward-keys to the entire Lower Alleys, just as noble lords held the wards and power from their ancestral manors. Leo was not that kind of Rogue, playing at being a king in his own country, and he had sworn to himself that he would never be that kind of Rogue.

Leo walked the streets of his Lower Alleys as much any of the Court of the Rogue, because it was important to be seen. He knew every street, every corner, every courtyard and fountain and bench. He knew where the shopkeepers liked to gather to gossip after the day was done, he knew where the laundry girls liked to do their work, he knew where the chefs and barkeeps and servers went at two in the morning after the restaurants closed to eat their dinners before falling into bed for another day. Three of his neighbourhoods, including one that he would have called the _beating heart_ of the Alleys, had been cut away.

His mother's clinic was gone. The Maywell Clinic, an achievement of the Alleys that had seen so many people pass through who would otherwise never receive Healing, which had saved so many lives, which had been a clear, identifiable pillar in the community, was gone. The Healers who had staffed the clinic, many of whom didn't live in the Alleys, might have survived, but the building itself, the support staff, the symbol of hope, was gone.

So much of his life was gone, and the discussion that happening around the table, underneath a pretty white tent and in front of a grand noble mansion, was no more than a distant buzz. He didn't belong here. He wasn't one of these people.

He should be in the Alleys, looking after his own.

"Leo?"

Someone tapped him on the arm. The Lord Queenscove, who had apparently switched seats with whoever was sitting beside him earlier, was staring at him with an expression of concern, and Leo shook himself. "What?"

His voice came out rough, rude, but no one commented.

"James has offered to put up sixty people here, at Potter Place – one of the wings here is unused," Black said, staring at him intently. "Albus, Raoul, Gareth and Tahmeed have offered to put up thirty each, which works out to a hundred and eighty refugees, leaving a little over two hundred left. The Clans will take in another sixty, and the Irish can do eighty. That's three hundred and twenty, so the last eighty or so—"

"The last eighty or so can stay with the Guilds," Leo finished, feeling something else coming over him. He shook it off – this was not the time to show emotion. "You're taking them in, but for how long? A week? A month?"

Archie's expression was sympathetic, and Leo hated it. "As long as it takes to get alternate arrangements in place. The British International Association will draw on their reserve fund to support them for the moment and will lobby with the ICW and the other Wizarding nations to declare a formal state of emergency for Wizarding Britain, which will start humanitarian aid flowing. Narcissa has agreed to go to the ICW – she was deeply involved in the previous government, she is recognizable, and she witnessed the coup itself, so she is the best choice to raise the alarm. Lina, Neal and Aldon will arrange a way to get her out of the country to Switzerland and into the ICW. Once we have an alternative, we can get your people out of the country."

"Out of the country?" Leo frowned, feeling a new sense of anger rising. "This is our country. Why should we leave?"

There was a long moment of silence. Leo looked around the table, seeing expressions that varied from dislike and annoyance to sympathy and, worst of all, understanding. More than a few were carefully blank, poised.

"Because the massacre of your Alleys is only the start," Lina said finally, abrupt. "Frankly, if we want to live, we should get the hell out of this country too. But, for whatever reason, we aren't – we're here to fight. And part of fighting means getting the people who can't protect themselves somewhere safer. If we're lucky, then they might get to come back one day. If we aren't, well, at least they get to live."

XXX

Neal stopped his mother, on the way out of the meeting. "Mama, can you go home without me? I'd like to check on him." He nodded after Aldon who, despite his controlled exterior, was not entirely successful at hiding his exhaustion. The thing with Aldon was that, in any situation of discomfort, he tended to turn insulting and angry – and when he was tired, that was only made worse.

His mother was a head shorter than him, but she had always carried herself like someone twice her height. She nodded, tilting her head up to look at him with a small smile. "Go on, Yuanren. I will go ahead, home, and speak to the house-elves about our security measures."

Neal grinned, and hurried after Aldon.

He didn't quite manage to catch the man before he Apparated, so he followed. Luckily, Aldon was only heading back to Rosier Place, and Neal managed to catch up to him before he was a third of the way across the grounds.

Lina acknowledged he was there with a short nod. "I'll go run a patrol of the grounds," she said, and with that, she jogged off, moving faster than Neal would have expected for someone of her age.

He took a few seconds to pick his words. "Have you slept?"

"A few hours."

"Uh-huh." Neal snorted. "And how many is a few hours?"

Aldon shrugged. "Three? They invented Wideye Potions and coffee for a reason."

"You need more sleep than that, especially after a draining." Neal pulled his wand, checked his core to confirm that he had enough magic, and cast a thorough diagnostic loop.

Chronic exhaustion – not just from the past night, but over the past several months. The blood magic he had cast last night was still reverberating through his core, and Neal guessed that by now, Aldon's magical affinity score had probably increased to an Erlich six. The cuts had scabbed over, but hadn't scarred yet, and he checked them quickly for infection. Aldon's lungs were damaged, the same as everyone who had been in the Alleys last night, but it didn't look like Aldon had gotten even the preliminary treatment for it. He brushed against Aldon's liver, confirming a few minor indications of Aldon's self-reported past alcohol abuse, but more concerning to him was the four espressos and three Wideye Potions Aldon had winding through his system. Neal guessed that he had wanted to be particularly sharp for the meeting, and then thanked the heavens that Aldon was too sheltered to have ever found anything harder than alcohol, caffeine and Wideye Potions.

He could just imagine the trouble Aldon would cause with something like speed, or cocaine, or Draper's Folly. He'd find a way to do a quick sweep of Rosier Place, he thought. Just in case.

"Find anything interesting?" Aldon's voice carried a small bite, but he was too tired to do anything about it anyway. Aldon's core hadn't recovered from the night as well as Neal would have expected.

"You need to sleep," Neal said, his tone brooking no argument. "And I'm setting rules in place – no more than two espressos in a day, and one Wideye Potion. You're abusing them."

Aldon shrugged, uncaring. "Needs must. If you're here anyway, would you mind looking in on Francesca? I failed to have you, or Archie, look at her last night before returning home. It was my error. I ought to have, she was coughing last night."

"If you take a nap, I will," Neal replied, seeing the opportunity and grabbing it. That was a talent one had to develop with someone like Aldon – he often needed to trade a favour to get Aldon to do something he didn't want to do. He supposed he probably could just hex the man, but he didn't want to resort to that just yet.

"Fine." Aldon paused for a long moment, and there was a small, low sigh. "Do you trust me, Neal?"

Neal raised an eyebrow. That was a question unlike any that Aldon had ever asked before, a rare display of vulnerability. "I do. Why are you asking?"

"Most of them, at Archie's meetings, they don't. Lord Potter, Lord Dumbledore, even your ally, the Heir Goldenlake… they don't trust me." There was a small huff, a somehow sad and angry sound all at once. "I have… friends, or allies, in Voldemort's camp. They risk their lives every time they send me a message, and this morning's information… I can't imagine the risk that Swallow must have run to decode my message and write me a reply so quickly, then to send it out by owl. And half the people at that table don't trust that I'm not the goddamn enemy. Instead, Lord Dumbledore warned everyone that I was taking advantage of a tragedy to turn it to my own purposes."

Neal didn't know how to reply to that. He didn't think that was what had actually happened, but he couldn't deny the undercurrents of mistrust at the negotiations. Rough groups had already formed – the historic Light faction, regardless of where they were sitting, were intensely loyal to the Lord Dumbledore, supporting and reinforcing each other at every turn. The Irish and the Scots had formed a rough alliance, the Welsh and Shifter Alliance generally supporting them with a few minor differences in position. The British International Association was a bit of an outlier and didn't trust anyone, but they benefitted from a certain patronizing generosity the Light faction bestowed on them, since they spoke for the newbloods and halfbloods long expelled from the country. Aldon had Lina backing him, but when he spoke, he often spoke alone, since Lina spoke only to provide strategy. The Lady Malfoy spent most of the meetings silent.

Even Neal had never stood up and outright supported Aldon. He did trust Aldon, and he did support most of the things that Aldon said that weren't sarcastic remarks or insults, but he simply hadn't thought Aldon needed his support and reinforcement. Aldon was harsh, acerbic, quick to insult his opponents and quicker take apart their arguments – he was much better at the political game than Neal. He often had an explanation of why something was ridiculous, nonsensical, intellectually deficient, or outright stupid before Neal had even processed what the proposal required. He was often right, even if he went about telling them all so in an unproductive way.

"I hate them, Neal," Aldon was saying, his voice low and harsh. "The Light faction is no better than the SOW Party, and quite a lot worse. I wasn't kicked out of the SOW Party for being a halfblood, you know. There are halfbloods in the SOW Party. I was kicked out because I challenged the blood discrimination laws. I summoned Justice. I helped put together Bridge. I risked myself, and Francesca, and I pulled attention to their supposed uniting cause, blood equality, at the Unity Ball. I've done more against the blood discrimination laws than most of them have in generations. And that's not enough. For them, because I'm the Lord Rosier, because I'm Dark, because my family was in the SOW Party, that means I can't be trusted."

"I trust you." Neal slung an arm over Aldon's shoulders, a little cautious. He was given to easy affection, though he knew Aldon was not. But he thought Aldon needed it right now. "I know I haven't said it in the meetings, and I'm sorry for that. But I do trust you, and I trust your information."

Aldon looked up at him, giving him a small, bitter half-smile. "But you didn't grow up here, Neal. You don't carry the same prejudices. But that doesn't matter. I've finished trying to please Archie's group of proposed allies. I realized, after the attack… I will do the same thing no matter what the Light faction decides. I _will_ rebel against Voldemort, regardless of whether I must do so alone or not, regardless of whether I will have any other support. I do not accept Voldemort and his Ministry as our legitimate government, and I refuse to pretend as if nothing has changed. I drafted a statement on behalf of House Rosier to publish in the next Bridge, right after the front-page article on the burning of the Lower Alleys. Everyone else, they can follow me, or not. I don't care anymore."

Neal studied the man for a moment, picking up the firm, reckless, resolution in his eyes. "House Queenscove will be behind you. I believe you, Aldon, and you're right. We can work out the details later. The burning of the Alleys was an atrocity, an act of war. If we're going to say anything, now is the time to do it. Let me see your statement while you nap. Archie should know we're doing this, and I'll see who else is ready to follow, but we'll do it whatever they say."

Aldon nodded, a slight movement, his shoulders sagging as he trudged back to his manor. As promised, he handed Neal his handwritten statement before letting Neal send him to bed with a mild sleeping potion. Neal spent the rest of the early evening checking in on Francesca, Aman and Lina, who had also been in the Alleys last night, and scouring Rosier Place for any illicit substances, just in case.

It took four days to craft the final statement, which was short and to the point.

_We the undersigned do not accept the Ministry of Magic as the legitimate government of Wizarding Britain._

_As published in Bridge on June 5, 1996, Lord Riddle and the SOW Party are no longer in control of Wizarding Britain. The terrorist threat of the last year, led by the so-called Voldemort, successfully committed a coup d'état, killing the Lord Riddle, the Lord Malfoy, the Lord Parkinson, the Minister for Magic, and many others. With the attack on the Lower Alleys the evening of June 21, 1996, to which none of the Ministry responded, our course is clear._

_The government of our great nation has been captured by extremists. In accordance with our duty as the leaders of our respective communities, we whole-heartedly reject this new government and stand in defiance from this point forward. We encourage all others to do the same._

_Lord Aldon __É__tienne Blake Rosier, House Rosier_

_Lord Nealan Yuanren Queenscove, House Queenscove_

_Lord Sirius Orion Black, House Black_

_Lord James Fleamont Potter, House Peverell_

_Lady Narcissa Druella Black Malfoy, Regent for the Lord Draco Lucian Malfoy, House Malfoy_

_Lionel Patrick Hurst, Rogue of the Lower Alleys_

_High Priestess Saoirse Riordan, Tuatha D__é_

_Mary Docherty, President, Free Irish_

_Minerva Isobel McGonagall, the Lady Ross and Emissary for the Clanmeet_

_Patricia Mary Ryan, Vice-President Advocacy, British International Association_

_Hermione Jean Granger, Head Representative, British Students Association (all chapters)_

Neal called his family and his closest friends. Graeme took a leave of absence from work, and Dom was between jobs anyway. Fei had just finished school and was looking for an excuse to avoid her family, and Kel bought a plane ticket. His father, Baird Queenscove, arranged to go on sabbatical and would arrive after the start of the new school year, once Jessa was back at Ilvermorny. Even Yuki, newly graduated from Mahoutokoro and a trained Healer, found a way to escape her conservative family's clutches to join him.

The only ones left were Will and Tina, but they would stay with the ICW in Geneva. Will intercepted the Lady Malfoy at the No-Maj airport, with the formal backing of the Canadian delegation to put her under political sanctuary while at the ICW. Tina, for her turn, pushed for a full investigation of Wizarding Britain by the International Wizarding Criminal Courts.

Francesca spoke to John, pulling in the Scamanders, who while non-noble still carried influence within Wizarding Britain. And John, along with Gerhardt Riemann, cut their summer plans short in favour of travelling to the ICW and, in Gerhardt's case, applying for an internal transfer into Wizarding Germany's delegation. John, since he had a secure line into Wizarding Britain through a comm orb with Francesca, became the de facto, unofficial, MACUSA liaison into Wizarding Britain.

And Aldon reorganized his informant groups. Some of his informants no longer needed to be secret, since they were already in open rebellion, and they moved into other roles. The shifter alliance, who hadn't signed the statement to preserve their efficacy as spies, would keep gathering information but report to Sirius rather than Aldon since their identities were known within the group. Aldon kept only full responsibility for his spies whose identities were secret, those in the Voldemort camp, and he began working to recruit more informants. The people he called Swallow and Vulture were quickly joined by Magpie, Finch and Hummingbird. Neal didn't know the spell that Aldon and Lina had used, but Aldon somehow managed to seal the knowledge of the identities of each of his spies into his soul, that they couldn't be taken away from him by force.

It was only a week, but Neal stood on the top of his battlements, preparing for action.

XXX

Three rooms and a bathroom.

They were decently sized rooms. The two bedrooms were adequately appointed, each with a grand four-poster bed just as Draco had at school. The wardrobes were adequate, and a small variety of robes, tailored to his size, had appeared in it with no explanation after only a few days. They weren't his clothes, and he doubted they were even new clothes, but they were well-made and in good condition and… well, Draco didn't have anything else to wear.

The parlour was large, with a soft, light green sofa arranged in front of a fireplace. There was no Floo connection to his fireplace – Draco had checked – but there was always a warm fire crackling in the grate. There were four bookcases along the back, stuffed with a wide variety of mismatched textbooks, legends, and biographies, and a woven basket held blank scrolls of parchment, ink, and quills. A small side table stood on one side of the room, where Draco and his mother had taken their meals, alone since Draco didn't have the run of Rosier Place. If he needed or wanted anything else, he only needed to ask one of the house-elves who silently came by, three times a day, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

His rooms were very comfortable, and he couldn't point out anything truly wrong with them. But it didn't matter how comfortable the rooms were, because Draco was still a prisoner.

His mother had left three days ago. She had explained the circumstances to him – someone needed to go to the ICW to explain what had happened. Someone needed to announce the coup to the wider world, and someone needed to carry word of the massacre in the Lower Alleys. His mother was recognizable, a figure in the previous government, and she was the logical choice. Draco understood, and his mother had told him everything that he needed to know, about the negotiations, about the statement in _Bridge_ that she had signed on his behalf as his regent.

Draco _understood_, but he hated it. He had no control over any of it. Draco was the presumptive Lord Malfoy, but until he came of age, his mother as regent would make the decisions for him.

And Draco didn't agree with most of her choices. More to the point, his _father_ wouldn't have agreed with them. Draco would not have supported an end to the blood discrimination laws, which his mother hadn't opposed. Draco would not have supported the referendum votes, which his mother hadn't opposed. Draco wouldn't have signed the joint statement, not because he agreed with Voldemort but because he didn't trust Blake any farther than he could hex him.

Draco loved his mother desperately, but something in her had broken the night his father died. She and his father had loved each other deeply, and without him, she seemed to be lost in her grief, making decisions that couldn't be in the best interests of House Malfoy. He felt her pain, hard, sharp and keening, every time he was close to her.

Draco, like his father, would fight against Voldemort, but he wouldn't have made deals with the Light faction and these other rebel groups, some of whom had fought against the Ministry for generations. He, like his father, wouldn't sacrifice everything they had fought for over the past few decades – there were _reasons _that laws had been instituted for Muggleborns and halfbloods, to protect the precious wizarding culture from the ever-encroaching threat of Muggle culture. He would agree that the laws needed finesse, that they shouldn't be a blanket statement, but they had been put in place for a reason and they should be guarding the line. And his mother seemed completely willing to sacrifice the progress they had made over the past few decades to fight against Voldemort when there were _other options. _

House Malfoy was powerful, a Book of Gold family. They had allies. Surely there were any number of other Dark, noble, pureblooded families that would have given them sanctuary: the Travers, the Averys, the Notts. Any one of the SOW Party families would have sheltered them, because they were the Malfoys, and they would have treated him far sight better than Aldon Blake did. He just needed to get to them instead of being trapped, a prisoner, at Rosier Place.

And there was Pansy. No one was doing anything to help Pansy. Draco had asked after her relentlessly, but his mother had only shaken her head.

"We don't know," she had said, a look of sorrow on her face. "The Lord Rosier reports that she is alive. Aside from that, we don't know."

She always called him that, _the Lord Rosier_, as if Aldon Blake was the proper Lord Rosier. He had been disowned, and while he might have wrestled the title from the Rosier family, Draco wasn't sure that he could, or that he should, hold it. He had been _disowned. _As a second cousin, even underage, Draco could challenge him for it.

He had considered it, at length.

"We'll be rescuing her, right?" Draco had replied, because that was the obvious next step. They had to rescue Pansy. Pansy was close friends with Blake, and of course he would act to rescue her, at the very least. There was no other answer.

His mother had shaken her head, slowly. "We don't know enough at this time to do anything, and they're still pulling together a force to fight. We don't have enough people for a rescue mission, not with Voldemort now entrenched at Malfoy Manor. It would be suicide."

Draco didn't believe her. Without his father, in her grief, he thought his mother was all too willing to accept the explanations that other people gave her. He knew, from what his mother had said, there were almost twenty people at the negotiation table, some of them reportedly able to call on hundreds. Voldemort had only had thirty people when he took Malfoy Manor, and he didn't see why they couldn't use their hundreds of supporters to rescue Pansy. They just didn't care to rescue Pansy, he thought – his mother was looking in the entirely wrong direction for allies. They should be looking towards their traditional allies, not the Light faction, not House Rosier, not these other groups. They all had their own agendas, and no interest in rescuing Pansy, and that was the sum of it.

He could challenge Blake for title. As a second cousin, he was close enough in line, and Blake had always been terrible at duelling. Blake hadn't taken Defense Against the Dark Arts past his fifth year, and in duelling club, Draco had always managed to defeat him.

Yet, Blake had won against Caelum Lestrange at the Unity Ball. Draco wasn't entirely sure how, but the rumours he had heard suggested that Blake had had a few tricks up his sleeve, and that he was willing to resort to blood magic. And, duels for succession were always duels to the death, in which Blake would be allowed to use anything he liked to defend his title. Draco needed more information before he issued a succession challenge.

There was a knock at the door, polite, and Draco, still absently thinking over the challenge idea, went to open it.

He didn't recognize the figure for a moment, and then he _did_. She was almost his height, though built with wider shoulders and a stocky figure. She smiled at him, a little shy, her green eyes bright through the spectacles she wore on her nose. Uncertainty radiated from her like a halo, even as she hesitantly held her arms out for a hug.

It was the hair. Draco had only seen her hair long once, in his mindscape when he was dying in first year, but it was unmistakeable, wild and thick.

"Rig—Harriett," he said, a little shocked even as he corrected himself. A bead of something that he didn't even know he still had died – there had always been some part of him that had wanted another explanation, he realized, that had wanted it to be a joke. But Arcturus Rigel Black was not Rigel, and instead there was Harriett Potter, looking at him with an expression that he intrinsically recognized as _Rigel's_. There was only the slightest pause before he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm glad to see you. I'm so, so glad to see you."

"Me too, Dray." Her voice was soft, choked with emotion, and Draco felt a strong sense of relief from her. The timbre of her voice was higher than the one that he remembered, but there was still something familiar about it.

No one else called him _Dray. _

"Call me Harry. Only Aldon calls me _Harriett_, but Archie says he's training him out of it by calling him _Al_ and seeing how he likes it." She grinned, a little impish, affecting an American drawl that she had to have picked up from her cousin, and Draco couldn't help the laughter that escaped him.

"Harry. I'm – I don't know what to say. So much has happened." He stepped away from her, inviting her into his rooms with a casual wave of his hand.

"I know." Harry sighed heavily, walking in and falling into his sofa. She moved differently, as Harry rather than as Rigel – there was something relaxed about her movements now, something he had seen only rarely in Rigel. "I'm still catching up on everything. I shouldn't have gone away for an entire year, but with the circumstances being what they were, I didn't have much choice. I'm… very sorry about your father, Dray."

"Thank you." Draco looked away, his face falling. The hurt was still raw. "Did you hear about Pansy?"

Harry nodded slowly, her face taking on a grim cast, and there was a spike of worry. "I did, yes. Aldon told me. He… also tells me that you've failed to pass his intention test four times since you've arrived. The one where you have to say that you intend no harm to him, to the people at Rosier Place, and to Rosier Place itself."

Draco scowled. Blake's _stupid_ test. He gave it to him every week, and he always said that Draco failed. Draco wasn't sure that he was even testing him – maybe Blake would say he had lied no matter what he said. "I don't believe that's a real test, on his part."

Harry fell silent, tilting her head in a very familiar way. "I think his gift is unusually sensitive," she offered, thoughtful. "You don't have to be lying for him to notice, he'll pick it up if you're even considering something that would harm him or anyone here. He's always been paranoid, and the statement published last week only makes that worse. He's put himself out as a target."

"He gave it to you as well?"

"He gives it to everyone." Harry paused, studying Draco closely with green eyes that were entirely unfamiliar. "If anyone enters, even if they were here before, he requires the statement in front of him. If he catches anything except pure truth, they're either denied entry, monitored strictly while here, or put in lockdown."

Draco swallowed, looking away. If that was the case, he was probably failing it because he was considering challenging Blake for title, he realized. He couldn't possibly say that he intended no harm if a part of him was consistently considering harming him for the Rosier title. But even without that, he didn't know if he would pass the test. The truth was, as long as he planned on escaping and opposing Blake and all he stood for, there was a distinct chance he wouldn't pass. And if he didn't pass, then Blake wouldn't let him out of these rooms.

And he didn't have a wand.

"I need to get out of here, Harry." Draco looked up, at the ceiling, his voice low and desperate. "No one's doing anything about Pansy. Pansy… we left her there. She caused a diversion for us, and we ran, and now no one is doing anything for her."

"As I understand it from Aldon, Pansy is alive, but Voldemort keeps her close." Harry looked away. "Rescuing her will probably have to come with a full attack on Voldemort. They're still working out the details for the treaty, but right now it looks like Aldon, Sirius and Archie are going to be handling information gathering and internal communications, making sure that people know what they need to know. My dad is going to be in command of most of the military activity. The British International Association is taking charge of refugee logistics, and MACUSA is pushing for the ICW to close the British borders and halt all flights. If they do, it'll mostly be symbolic – they can't stop the Muggle flights. Nothing is finalized yet, but they should move fast once the treaty is settled. We'll get Pansy back soon."

Draco looked down, his face crumpling a little. There were always reasons, and he didn't believe most of them. "Soon," he replied, bitter. "It's been almost a month. Voldemort took Malfoy Manor with about as many people as they have around that table. She's just not a priority, for them."

"I don't think that's the case." Harry frowned at him, a mild sense of disapproval echoing off of her. "If she's being kept as close to Voldemort as Aldon suggests, then it would be hard to go for her without the proper preparation. From what I've learned, Voldemort took Malfoy Manor by surprise – he planted an agent into the SOW Party, someone Riddle trusted, to create a weakness in the wards. It clearly took months of planning, especially with a second force of the same size holding down the Ministry."

Draco fell silent for a moment, thinking. He couldn't deny that all of this would make sense, but all their information was coming from one person, one source. "I don't trust Blake. Rosier, I mean."

Harry leaned back, letting a soft laugh escape. "He's not the easiest person to trust, no," she acknowledged. "I'm not sure I do, either. He's changed a lot over the past year. I don't really know what to think of him, but it seems like his aims are in line with ours, at least for the moment."

"Ours?" Draco looked at her in surprise, an ugly feeling of mixed surprise and disappointment curdling in his stomach. "I mean – you support this? Beyond Voldemort, I mean, all these other changes they're promising?"

Harry looked at him, open surprise on her face, and then Draco was hit with a strong sense of disappointment from her. Disappointment, and dawning realization. "I—" she paused. "Well, I am a halfblood, Draco. I'm caught in the Marriage Law and the other blood discrimination laws too. I don't really have any feelings on the independence referendums, but I've always been opposed to the blood discrimination laws."

"I'm not saying those laws are good," Draco replied, leaning forward, almost eager in the face of her disappointment. "I mean, obviously they need to be reworked, because they shouldn't be a blanket rule. For example, you – you should never have been caught by them. You're noble, you're powerful, you grew up in a wizarding family. You're _Slytherin, _for god's sake."

Harry didn't answer him, staring at some point on the mantlepiece.

"But I mean, the laws were instituted for a reason," Draco continued, the words rushing from him almost without thought, all the lines that he had been taught before and some that he had heard only recently. Everything he knew about the blood discrimination laws, in a wild torrent. "Muggleborns have different magic than us, more uncontrolled and dangerous, especially before they learn to control their magic. They don't learn the same things at home as we do, and they don't share our background, so it would be fundamentally unequal to have Muggleborns schooling with us. They would be so behind and wouldn't be able to keep up. It wouldn't be fair to them to put them in our classes, or to hold us back for them, so it's best for everyone to have them educated separately. And culturally, Muggleborns and halfbloods are very different from us, since they grow up part Muggle. Our wizarding culture and traditions are unique, they're the pillars on which we built our society, and they need to be protected. We're not Muggles, and there are so many of them, and so few of us, so we need the laws to protect our way of life. I'm not – I'm not anti-Muggle, but they aren't like us, and they should be kept separate from us for our own protection—"

"Draco." Harry's voice was quiet, but firm, and her green eyes were hard.

Draco shut up.

"Draco, I am not an exception," she continued, calm and even. "Don't treat me as an exception to the rules. I'm a halfblood, just like every other halfblood who was banned from Hogwarts. The only thing that was different about me is that I had a pureblood cousin who sort of looked like me who was willing to break the law for me. I _broke the law_ to go to Hogwarts. I—"

She fell silent, looking away, the smallest pang of regret coming off her. "Maybe you're right, because I shouldn't have. If I hadn't, we wouldn't be in this situation now. The Marriage Law probably would have passed in first year, so Riddle wouldn't have needed to plant the diary in second year. The petrifactions would have never happened, the basilisk would never have happened, and Voldemort wouldn't have escaped."

"But I would have been dead," Draco snapped, a little sharp. "In first year, with the Sleeping Sickness."

"No." Harry shook her head, and Draco felt a sharp stab of guilt, guilt mixed with grief, coming from her. "That – that was my fault too. I burned through all the ginseng that year making too many potions, too quickly, trying to be helpful. Trying to _prove _myself. If I hadn't, there still would have been some for you. You would have been just fine. And if I had just – if I had just gone to AIM, like I was supposed to, and Archie had gone to Hogwarts, like he was supposed to – we wouldn't be in this situation today. I – this is my fault."

"It's not your fault."

"No, Dray, this is my fault." Harry sighed heavily. "Because I wanted to go to Hogwarts, because I wanted to learn potions under Professor Snape... thousands of people died. I have to help fix it."

"That's not—" Draco didn't know what to say, and he fell silent. Everything was thorny, a mess – if he was right, and Muggleborns and halfbloods should be kept separate, then Harry was an ideal example of the reasons why. Rigel had attracted trouble like no one else. But Harry wasn't supposed to be the example. Harry was so powerful, and so smart, and she worked so hard, and none of what had happened had ever been her _fault_. But it was exactly what others would say of her, what they _had_ said in the Black Trial, and that made him feel sick to his core. He shoved the thought away, rude. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"Blaise and I are going to go try to convince the other SOW Party families to join us. Millie's abroad, so there's – there's only us, now. We need to try to bring as many people onto our side as possible. We were hoping you might be willing to come with us, but…" She shrugged. "It's fine, Dray. I'm really glad that you're safe. I should really – I should go. There's a lot to do."

"Wait," Draco started, but she stood up, looking at him with a sad, troubled expression.

"I'll – I'll come visit you again soon, I promise," she said, her discomfort and grief palpable even without his Empathy, heading for the door. "I'll see you later."

The door shut behind her with a quiet, very final, _snick._

XXX

_ANs: Happy Easter, everyone, and I hope COVID-19 quarantine is treating everyone well! One would think that I would write faster with the courts being shut down, along with all my other usual distractions, but alas. Cataclysm is considerably harder for me to write than any of the others, because I'm very much not used to writing action, and it's mostly action. Thanks as always to best beta-reader ever, meek_bookworm, whom I work far too hard, and to all of you who take the time to drop me a review! Please do leave me a comment or review - I like to know your thoughts!_


	4. Chapter 4

The paper lay on the table, unassuming and yet somehow threatening.

It wasn't _Bridge._ The paper used was far higher quality than the stock that _Bridge_ used, with a yellow tinge rather than grey – not parchment, which would be too expensive for any paper, but something clearly meant to remind the reader of parchment. The font, even from a distance, was markedly different, taller and starker than the standard Times New Roman used by _Bridge_, and the paper was folded differently. _Bridge_ was folded like a magazine, almost-square pages flipping like a book – the _Daily Prophet _was long, rectangular, with articles above and below the fold.

Above the fold, Archie got his second glimpse of Voldemort. He had seen the man at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, but not since, and he was struck anew by how _young_ the man seemed. He looked no older than Aldon or Neal, for all that he was standing in a position of authority in front of the Wizengamot. He recognized Pansy Parkinson, standing behind the man to his left, with the Lady Lestrange behind and to the right.

They had been preparing for this, Archie reminded himself. Armand Abbott had gotten the letter to return to work a few days ago, and they knew the _Daily Prophet _was being set up anew. They just hadn't known the story Voldemort would try to sell, nor the reaction to their own very public statement. Armand worked in international news and hadn't been able to find out anything further. Even Aldon only had ideas – it would be tricky, he said, because Voldemort would want the world to know he had taken over, but he wouldn't want a mass resistance.

Nothing for it, Archie told himself, reaching for the paper. He didn't want to read the paper yet, but he had to know what the other side was saying. He steeled himself and flipped below the fold.

"_A NEW WORLD,"_ the title announced.

_A press conference was held today by Voldemort, political unknown but rising star, on the steps to the Wizengamot._

"_It is with great sorrow that I announce today the passing of Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, leader of the Save Our World Party and political visionary," he said, reading off prepared remarks. "A scant three weeks ago, the Ministry of Magic and the SOW Party suffered a very serious attack. Lord Riddle, as well as many others, fell in the defense of our great nation. A mere week ago, there was a further, horrific Fiendfyre attack in the Lower Alleys, in which thousands are believed to have perished. In this time of emergency, the Minister of Magic, still gravely ill, has appointed me as deputy-in-charge, with a wide-ranging mandate to re-establish our sense of security, and to ensure our safety._

"_Our nation, our heritage, and our very way of life is under attack. While we continue to investigate these insidious crimes, it is clear that there are those among us who have come under the sway of radical, underground paper, the so-called _Bridge_. _Bridge_ claims to promote non-violent resistance, but we have evidence linking the organization to militant insurgent groups such as the Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish. These are groups are well known to have long terrorized Wizarding Britain. Further, we have also uncovered the identities of the people behind _Bridge_. They are Muggleborns, halfbloods, and purebloods, some of whom were educated within Britain and many of whom were not, and they receive support from an extremist, international lobbying group, the British International Association. _

"_Several noble families are under suspicion of using _Bridge _to further their own political aims, with even more families implicated by association. It is time to shine a light into some of the most shadowed reaches of government. To this end, I am suspending noble privilege in all aspects of government, and I urge the wizarding citizens of Great Britain to strongly reconsider any social customs which give precedence to those already born into a charmed life. For too long our great nation has been held hostage by the whims of only a few. We watch a noble class profit off our toil, filling their vaults at Gringotts and living large on their estates while we saw little benefit for ourselves. Political power is held in the hands of a favoured few, the highest positions in government being awarded not on merit, but to the closest friends and allies of the nobility. They throw lavish parties and elegant events, enjoying luxuries of which we can only dream, while we struggle simply to buy wands and send our children to school. Through their errors on the international stage, we have borne the brunt of the trade sanctions. It is not surprising that a new, united insurgency has arisen._

"_This must end. The Lord Riddle is dead, may he rest in peace. The powers formerly delegated to the Wizengamot and the nobility are now vested in me. I, on behalf of the new Ministry of Magic, will immediately begin work to address our economic concerns and quell this unrest at its source. Internationally, we must begin enacting our own trade protection measures rather than constantly suffering the effects of foreign trade embargoes. Internally, we will conduct a full anti-corruption investigation throughout both the Ministry and the former nobility. Finally, and most importantly, we will immediately begin strengthening the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to address our serious security concerns, to preserve our own national sovereignty from foreign influence, and to protect our valued culture. _

"_I realize that this change is sudden and will seem shocking to some. But it is my belief that, in time, these changes, supported by hard work from both the Ministry and the citizens of Wizarding Britain, will build a better future for ourselves and for our families."_

_The Daily Prophet successfully stopped Voldemort just after the conference to ask a few more questions pertaining to his background and history._

"_Thank you for the question," he replied with a small smile. "But I am afraid that there is little of interest. I grew up in a small wizarding village in Northumbria, in a non-noble but pureblood family. My parents, unfortunately now deceased, could not afford to send me to Hogwarts. I was very fortunate, however, that my parents were both highly skilled and able to homeschool me. Most of us are not so lucky."_

_Further updates regarding both the anti-corruption investigation and the recent attacks are expected within the week._

Archie read the article once, then twice. There was a part of his brain that tried to compute it and failed. Voldemort wasn't a heroic rescuer come to the aid of Wizarding Britain. He had been behind the attack on the Ministry and on Malfoy Manor both, and had succeeded with his coup. He had been behind the Lower Alleys attack as well – Aldon had information confirming it. And what about the entirety of last year? What about the Bulstrode Mansion attack, or the attack on the Hogwarts Express, or the burning of the _Daily Prophet _offices?

Everything he said about _Bridge_ – it wasn't _untrue_, but it was also so incredibly wrong that he didn't even know where to begin. _Bridge _had promoted non-violent resistance until the Lower Alleys attack, which had completely changed the picture. It was Voldemort who had always been violent, who had always resorted to violence, and it was members of _Bridge _who were trying to stop the violence! As for the Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish, he knew that they had longstanding difficulties with the Ministry of Magic, but they had their reasons. And everything about _foreign influence! _Foreign influence wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and people who were schooled outside of Britain were still _British_. The British International Association was still _British_, they weren't foreign meddlers in their own country, and they were hardly _extremist. _

It didn't make any sense, and it was _infuriating_. Archie sat and stared at the paper in silence, trying to think it through and getting nowhere. At one point he got up for a mug of coffee, in the hope that it would jumpstart his brain, but it didn't help – by the third and fourth times he read it through, it was only _more_ infuriating. How could someone just stand there and _lie_ like that? How could the people that stood behind him allow for it? How could people _believe_ it?

Voldemort was _using_ them. He had taken half of their talking points, emphasized the noble and non-noble inequality, woven in the economic problems, and then he turned around and blamed _them_ for the attacks!

No amount of sugar and milk in his coffee helped.

There was obviously some strategy to it, but Archie had never been good at political thinking. It was the sort of thing that he consulted Dad for, or Harry, or Hermione if it had to do with international politics. But Dad was off with Uncle James, and Harry was with Leo, and he couldn't possibly pull her away when Leo clearly needed her so much more than he did right now. No doubt either of them would explain it to him later if he needed it, but Archie wanted to know _now_, and he was supposed to be a leader in this resistance movement – he _had _to know.

The front door opened – no alarm, so it was someone that the wards recognized well. Archie looked up to see Hermione coming into the kitchen, a rolled-up copy of the _Daily Prophet _in her own hands. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed – Archie had no trouble discerning her feelings.

"You've read it, too," he said, gesturing to the paper. He wanted to stand up, give her a hug or a kiss, but from experience he knew that she wouldn't appreciate it right now. "I don't really know what to make of it. It's just—"

"It's _despicable_," Hermione finished for him, slapping her copy of the _Daily Prophet _on the table. "But it's logical, if you don't look too closely, which just makes it worse. We're going to have to do so much work to manage this, Archie – I _just _got the Wizarding Nordic Union to agree to taking two hundred refugees. I'm going to have to do so much work to keep them on board, with the _Daily Prophet_ saying that _we're_ the terrorists."

"I don't understand how _anyone_ can believe this, though." Archie gestured helplessly at the paper. "Look, I mean – _Pansy Parkinson_ is standing there! Lady Lestrange is there! Lady Lestrange was _charged _for the attack on the Unity Ball not even six months ago! How can anyone fall for this?"

Hermione shook her head furiously, her thick hair bouncing in the air. "Voldemort doesn't want to fight a war, Archie, he's just a despot who wants to rule Britain with no opposition. Most people aren't going to want to fight a war. People mostly want stability, especially if they don't think the changes will affect them. If they're purebloods, then what they'll see is opportunity – someone is promising to address the economic problems that they care about, there's a vague hint that they'll have more of a voice later, and they just want to be safe."

"But what about last year?" Archie looked up, his forehead creasing in disbelief. "Voldemort's trying to pin the coup and the Lower Alleys attacks on us, but what about last year? People died in those attacks too!"

Hermione grimaced. "The _Daily Prophet'_s routine of obfuscation last year, especially through the Bulstrode Mansion attack, really worked. People can't tell which attack was a terrorist attack, which were accidents, and which were completely unrelated. For the people who lost someone in those attacks, a lot of them are already with us – but it's not going to bring anyone new to us. I don't think he can deny the Unity Ball attack, but after that there were only the attacks on Azkaban and on the _Daily Prophet_, and the _Daily Prophet _attack was only reported in _Bridge_. The coup and the Lower Alleys attack, too, were published first by _Bridge_, so I think a lot of it will come down to whether people trust _Bridge_. A lot of people don't."

"Okay," Archie said, resting his head in his hands. "So we still need to convince the public, but how? We're the ones behind _Bridge_, we're the ones who blew the whistle, we _know_ we didn't do it and we already trust ourselves—"

Hermione laughed, an amused and somehow sad sound. "Oh, Archie. We really don't – you remember how long it took for Lord Dumbledore and most of the Light faction to come on board after we released the statement?"

"Almost a week," Archie replied with a wince. It had taken most of a week of meetings, hours spent at the Shafiqs, the Goldenlakes, the Longbottoms, the Naxens, the Nonds and more to get even two-thirds of the Light families behind them. Even now, some of them were skeptical, and he never did sway either the Longbottoms or the Ollivanders. "But you know – Lord Dumbledore never enforces a party line. He never did in the Wizengamot, so that's not really a surprise."

Hermione sighed. "We're balancing a shaking tray of too many dishes and trying not to break any of them. Most of the Light families don't trust us, they only trust Dumbledore, and no one trusts Aldon. He's – well, he didn't do himself any favours at negotiations, and the only confirmation we have linking Voldemort to the Lower Alleys attack is his word. As for last year's attacks, we really only have my analysis of the similarities between them, and I only said that it was likely the work of a single terrorist, probably Voldemort but not necessarily him. Formally, the Bulstrode Mansion attack was put down as an accident, and most of the others were a string of copy-cat incidents. Voldemort can use the same argument for the _Daily Prophet_ attack, but it's better strategically for him to try to pin that on us, too."

"But why?" Archie threw his hands in the air. "Why _us?_ Why would we burn down the _Daily Prophet?"_

Hermione laughed again, almost helplessly. "Um, because with the _Prophet _out of the way, we became the primary news source for Wizarding Britain?"

Archie winced. "Right. All right. Okay. This is bad. What do we about it, 'Mione?"

She shook her head. "Deny it, I think. I don't know, really. Point out the inaccuracies, to the extent that we can, and you, Sirius and James will have to deal with Dumbledore and the Light faction, try to keep them from pulling out. Voldemort can't hide the Ministry Unity Ball attack, or Azkaban attack, and there have to be other similarities between those and the other attacks, too. Hopefully, this posture won't last. Anyway, that isn't why I came – I mean, of course I wanted to check on you too, but I also need to talk to you about refugee logistics."

Archie sighed, folding his copy of the paper and standing up. "All right. Refugee logistics. I'll make some tea. What's up?"

Hermione flashed him a small smile. "Assuming I and everyone we have at the ICW can convince the Wizarding Nordic Union to stay in, I'm going to need some help planning some travel routes for the refugees to avoid the attention of either Wizarding or Muggle Britain. They're planning on settling our refugees in a wizarding community on a Norwegian island called Stord, but getting there will be a problem – there's a Floo point, if they can get into Oslo or Bergen, but the refugees…"

She paused, an embarrassed look coming across her face. Archie smiled, knowing exactly she meant. "Whatever their blood status, 'Mione, most of them have never left the Alleys. Remember what I was like when I first arrived at AIM?"

"I know, I know, but the best of them look like they stepped out of a Renaissance Faire, the worst like they came out of a fantasy convention," Hermione said, putting her head in her hands. "I shouldn't find this as frustrating as I do, but it's posing huge logistical problems. Ideally, I would have split them into smaller groups and sent some through the Muggle systems – our contacts in the Wizarding Nordic Union can make them disappear once they're there, but none of them have any Muggle identification at all so that's entirely out. I'm going to need Portkeys, at least a dozen, and they're going to need to be exceptionally overpowered to reach from here to Stord."

"I'll talk to Aunt Lily about the Portkeys," Archie replied immediately from beside the stove where the kettle was starting to steam. At least this was a problem he could solve – Aunt Lily was one of the most powerful witches he knew, and Portkeys were Charms-based. If anyone would be able to manage that kind of transport, it would be her.

"Thank you." Hermione sighed. "The last group, we can send through the north of Scotland – one of the McKinnons has a boat and they'll pilot the refugees to Stord. In some ways, the logistics are only the easiest part. It's…"

She stopped again, just as the kettle started whistling. Archie pulled it off, filling one of Mum's flowery teapots and throwing in a few bags to steep. He waited, listening – Hermione wasn't at a loss for words often, but it was when she was most vulnerable. Hermione always poured everything she had into what she did, and he thought that sometimes she needed to slow down and process her emotions. She never left enough time for herself.

"Arch, we have a group of people who have been quite isolated, and they're already traumatised by what they've gone through." Hermione's voice was quiet. "They've lost so many people – no one in that group lost _no one_. And we're going to take them, and for their own safety we're going to drop them in a whole new world. I don't know what Wizarding Britain was thinking, isolating themselves from the No-Maj world to the extent they did, but… just the shock of a different language and different cultural norms would be bad enough, but for these people, that will just be the start."

"I adjusted," Archie reminded her softly, taking a seat beside her and resting a hand on her shoulder. "So did Harry, in her year abroad, though I don't know much about it from her side. Even Aldon managed to pull it off, and he's so stiff and conservative I thought he was going to break before he bent."

Hermione snorted. "If you call his ridiculous penchant for waistcoats adapting."

Archie laughed. "But he did! I even heard him complaining the other day about not having his laptop at Rosier Place. We adapted, and the refugees can do it too."

"You adapted in completely different circumstances, though." Hermione shook her head, reaching for the pot of tea and pouring herself a mug. "You were really excited about going abroad, and Aldon had a lot of support. It would have been much harder for him if you and John hadn't gone to flush him out, dragged him out for new clothes, and then taken him through the Tube. We can't provide that much personalized support to the refugees, Archie – there are too many of them, and too few of us, and they're traumatised to boot. Many of them won't _want_ to change."

"We can still do what we can to ease the transition for them, 'Mione." Archie reached for her hand. "What do you think would help?"

Hermione sighed again, looking into her mug of tea. "I don't know how much we _can_ do, Archie. I'm talking to Eleni Hurst about it – she and the other Healers from the Maywell Clinic have an established presence in the Lower Alleys. She's going to try to talk to everyone, start managing expectations. If I could get a few other leaders in the Alleys to do the same, leading by example, it could make a huge difference."

"I'll mention it to Harry," Archie said, though he grimaced at the thought. It wasn't that he didn't think that Harry couldn't help, because he knew that she could, and would, but he didn't want to put it on her. "But she and Leo are both… well."

Harry had had a whole life in the Alleys. She wasn't like Archie who had flitted down to the Lower Alleys only a few times – Harry had had an apartment there, friends, a community. She had never told him very much about it, but Archie guessed that the Alleys had been a sort of freedom for her from the ruse, much the way that No-Maj London had been for him. The Lower Alleys had been special to her, even if she hadn't lived there, though Archie could remember summer breaks and winter holidays where Harry _had_ practically lived there. He had meant to check in on her, had tried to a few times, but between his meetings with the Light faction and reading the missives from their other allies he hadn't had the time. Harry, too, was often gone, spending hours every day with Leo. The few times Archie had managed to find her in her Potions lab, she had been decidedly non-talkative over endless cauldrons of Healing and ward-making potions. And Leo, of course, had been the Rogue of the Lower Alleys, and he had to have taken the loss of his home, his community, hard.

Hermione nodded, not needing Archie to explain. "They're as traumatised as the rest."

She finished her tea and went off to confirm the refugee situation with the Wizarding Nordic Union. Over the next week, Archie read the _Daily Prophet_ from cover to cover, every morning. There were dozens of fluff articles, all subtly or not-so-subtly praising the new government. The Ministry was cutting down on excess, prioritizing previously drastically underfunded areas, particularly the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and lmproper Use of Magic offices. The anti-corruption investigation resulted in charges against the Malfoys, the Lord and Lady Parkinson, Master Severus Snape, and a slew of other non-supportive noble and non-noble families.

_Bridge_ had a full response the next week, denying any responsibility for the attacks. Archie didn't know how much help it would be – many of the things that were said _were_ at least partially true. The Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish did have a conflicted history with the Ministry of Magic, and many of the people in _Bridge_ were Muggleborns and halfbloods who had been educated outside Britain. They _were_ being funded by the British International Association, which _was_ a lobbying group, even if they weren't extremist. Clarifications were made, but there was only so much they could do on that angle.

Instead, they reinforced the lines. They republished last year's article linking the Bulstode Mansion fire to the various terrorist attacks, drawing attention back again and again to the mysterious sign that had appeared in the air above. But that sign wasn't replicated over the Lower Alleys massacre, and they couldn't find a witness who had seen it on the night of the coup, so there was little they could draw on other than Aldon's word to say that Voldemort had been behind either of them. A few paltry days later, and the _Daily Prophet_ had an article suggesting that it had been _Bridge_ supporters, long dissatisfied with the Ministry of Magic and stoked by the rhetoric, behind both attacks. Lesser-blooded and poorly educated abroad, the perpetrators had lost control of the Fiendfyre they had summoned, which had destroyed the Alleys and them with it.

Worst of all, the Light faction began threatening to withdraw from the treaty, and Archie was caught in a new round of negotiations. Dumbledore, fortunately, joined him and Dad for about half of the meetings with his traditional supports, so most of them didn't withdraw. But there was no way that it could last long-term, and Archie knew it. He felt like a circus performer, sitting on top of a unicycle while balancing cups and bowls and plates on his head, wobbling without the ability to do any magic to hold it all together.

It had to end, and soon. For now, Uncle James had enough of a force to challenge Voldemort on his grounds, and so he, Dad and Uncle Remus were caught up in planning for a major attack on Malfoy Manor. They needed to destabilize Voldemort before he could become too entrenched in Wizarding British politics, before he became the new normal. The best way to do that would be for what remained of the past government to handle the threat.

Archie could only hope that it would succeed. That it would succeed, and that the war would be over. Then they could argue over what came next without the fear of violence.

XXX

Pandora Parkinson was terrifying.

Pansy hated her, and she hated her more because Pandora was _herself_. A different version of herself, a version of herself that she _never_ wanted to be, but the version of herself that kept her alive and in Voldemort's good graces. Pandora was uncaring, hard – Pandora was focused entirely on the things that she wanted, and she didn't care who she hurt in the process.

But Pandora was also _free_. Pandora feared nothing, Pandora cared nothing for what others thought of her, and that feeling was _intoxicating_. Pandora said exactly what she thought, charitable or not, politically correct or not, proper or not, and Pansy _enjoyed _it. Pandora was _herself_, perhaps one of the purest versions of herself that could have existed, the sharp adult to the sharp child that Pansy had been before she had learned to lie.

Pandora was the one who had planned Voldemort's entry strategy into Wizarding Britain. She was the one who had devised Voldemort's _plain but inspiring_ backstory; Voldemort himself had been inclined to something grand, to claiming heritage from some of the greatest wizards who had ever lived, but she had convinced him that in this case, less was more. It was better that the populace see themselves in him, that he be _one of them_, with only a little more power, charisma, and daring. She was the one who had opted to use the _Bridge_ talking points, minus the blood discrimination laws so critical for Voldemort to expand, as well as blaming _Bridge_ for the attacks – people were already dissatisfied, and a clever person could capitalize on the opportunity posed by the enemy paper for widespread control.

When Voldemort had lost control of Scar, his lead man in the Alleys, it was Pandora who had altered his original plans to make them salvageable with her wider political strategy. It was Pandora who had suggested that starting points of the blaze should be the Auror outposts, that it could later be framed on _Bridge_, and it had been Pandora that had vetoed the use of the Dark Mark.

Voldemort had been very disappointed. He loved the Dark Mark, he thought it was the grand personification of his great and noble organization. It was a _skull_ with a _snake coming out of its mouth!_ Some of his followers even called themselves the _Death Eaters, _for goodness' sake. Pandora couldn't believe it.

"Do you want to be a _teenage terrorist_ _playing at politics_, or do you want to rule this country?" she had demanded. The Dark Mark, the trademark names: they were idiotic, immature, a symbol of teenage rebellion, a waving flag that Voldemort was a child who could not be trusted, a doodle on the edges of parchment of OWL students who did not want to study for their exams. If he wanted to be legitimate, he needed to either drop the symbol entirely or find something clean, bland, and inoffensive. Voldemort had been furious, about to order Bellatrix to torture her for the insult, when the younger Lestrange had interrupted with his harsh, rude laughter.

"She is _entirely_ correct," he had drawled. "It will only attract more of the same kind of followers, people of the same ilk as my mother. The time for terror is done, and dropping the symbol now allows you to disassociate yourself from the attacks of the last year."

Voldemort, shockingly, had let it go, and the modified Lower Alleys attack plan had gone off without a hitch that very night. Pansy wished she could have sent warning, but Voldemort had kept her at his side the entire evening, until it was too late. It was all she could do, slipping out of Voldemort's rooms in the early hours of the morning, to decode Aldon's risky note and send back a very hasty reply confirming that Voldemort had indeed been behind the attack.

But therein lay the problem. Pandora Parkinson was a living, breathing personality of her own, and when Pansy handed over the reins of her control, it was Pandora in charge. And Pandora _believed_ in Voldemort, Pandora wanted the world that he would create, and Pandora would happily use Pansy's considerable skill at political manipulation and social strategy to achieve her aims. Pandora could no more undersell her talent or purposely sabotage one of Voldemort's plans than Pansy herself, funnelling information whenever and wherever she could to Aldon on the other side, could betray her friends on the outside.

Pandora Parkinson was terrifying, and Pansy never wanted to be her. But Pandora was also who she had to be to survive, so each and every day, Pansy woke up, pulled on her robes, and she handed control to her alter ego.

XXX

Draco's suite of rooms had shrunk. Before, his mother had had a bedroom in his suite, but that had disappeared a few days after she had left. His sitting room was smaller too, and there was only one chair at the lonely table where meals appeared, three times a day. A house-elf always appeared with his evening meal, and always asked if there was anything else that they could bring him to make him more comfortable.

They would bring him books, Quidditch magazines, even a Snitch that he could let go and chase around his miniscule rooms. They wouldn't bring him a broom, not that Draco had the space to fly one, but they brought him two packs of Exploding Snap cards. There were a few days where Draco thought about asking for the most ridiculous things he could think of, but when the house-elves actually brought him the _mimbulus mimbletonia_ that he had asked for and the plant had promptly sprayed him in pus, he thought better of it.

Harry visited, once every few days, but something felt different. She was Rigel, and she had all of Rigel's memories, but there was something about her that _wasn't_ Rigel. She radiated the same guilt, as overwhelming as it ever was, but otherwise she carried herself very differently. She was less guarded as herself, more relaxed. She spoke easier, she smiled easier, she was a little lighter now, but it was more than that.

She was confident now, about topics other than Potions. She didn't shy away from any areas where they might disagree, and she very bluntly told him, when he raised it, that the idea that halfbloods and Muggleborns had more dangerous magic was preposterous. The blood discrimination laws were something she fundamentally disagreed with, on every level, and she saw nothing in them worth saving at all. When Draco, thinking to change the topic, asked her about her visits to other SOW Party families, she had only shrugged, launching into a story about being at the Avery residence, where they had been summarily dismissed by house-elf. She didn't seem to care about the insult that being escorted from the grounds by house-elf represented.

Most of her attention, however, was focused on the outside world, on the aftermath of a major Fiendfyre attack in the Lower Alleys. She was perpetually worried about the refugees, about someone called Leo, and the oscillating waves of crushing grief, worry, and determination kept him from pressing her too much for more.

No one else told him anything about what was happening outside his four walls. Even his mother's letters were brief, telling him more about Geneva, Switzerland and the ICW, than the happenings of Wizarding Britain.

So, instead, Draco asked for _Bridge, _and then he asked for the _Daily Prophet_. _Bridge_ came only once per week, but the _Daily Prophet _came every day.

The first day of the _Prophet_ was the worst. Voldemort was standing on the front page, and Draco could hardly breathe for the emotions, the scents, the sounds that assaulted him. The man was standing in front of the Wizengamot, dressed in robes far finer than the ones that he had worn to attack Malfoy Manor, but all Draco could see was that night: the window gallery in flames, the grand chandelier crashed down across two sofas and a coffee table, a monster at the head of the room standing over the body of Lord Riddle. He swam for a long, endless minute, drowning in fear and anger and alien joy, smelling acrid smoke and pungent fear-sweat.

Then he blinked, and the memory was gone. He was only staring down at the moving picture of Voldemort making a speech, in the same position as Lord Riddle had stood so many times. Pansy was standing behind him, a little to one side, a tiny, pleased smile on her lips. He took a deep breath, trying to block her image from his sight and flipped the paper below the fold, where he could read it without having to look at the photograph.

The article just did not compute in his head. He wanted to say it was wrong – there were parts of it what were wrong, but for the most part it simply did not compute. There were words on the page, but they did not make sense, strung together in that row. He didn't understand it. The Minister for Magic wasn't _gravely ill_, he was _dead_, and he didn't even know what to think about the rest.

The next days were only worse. He, Uncle Severus, and his mother were all charged with corruption within the week, as were Pansy's parents, and he couldn't recognize himself, or his family, in the descriptions that were written. There were days that he couldn't bring himself to read the paper at all, long days where he stared at the menacing roll on the side table and couldn't bear to even open it. He always caught up later, through either boredom or a morbid curiosity, and he always spent the rest of that day, or evening, stewing.

Between the ideals espoused by _Bridge _and those of the _Daily Prophet_, between Pansy standing beside Voldemort and Harry and Blaise standing with Black and Rosier, there didn't seem to be any space left in the middle for him. It felt like he had to make a decision, and he didn't know where he stood. Where should he stand?

Harry was a halfblood, but she was also the most powerful and skilled witch he knew. But she also met so many of the SOW Party talking points. Her magic was different, even a little wild, and if someone wanted to make a case that halfbloods were dangerous, then Harry was a prime example. But Harry, even when her magic was at its wildest and most uncontrolled, had never harmed anyone except in the most extreme cases of self-defence. Other than potions, Harry had had no experience in any other kind of magic when she started at Hogwarts, and he remembered the struggle she had had with her magic for almost the entire first two months. She had caught up quickly, faster than he could have imagined, but the fact remained that there was no reason to think she would. Finally, he doubted that Harry had grown up with the same pureblood culture that he and Pansy shared, because Black behaved nothing like her and, as herself, she seemed far more like Black than like _Rigel_. Pureblood culture was clearly something that she had learned for the ruse, not natural to her.

Harry's words, that she was not an exception, bothered him. He had assumed, for the past year, that she was. One person, that was easy for him to justify, but it now connected that Rosier was a halfblood, too. If it hadn't come out so publicly, Draco would never have suspected – while Rosier might not have been the academic and magical superstar that Harry represented, neither was he a failure of a wizard. And culturally, of course, he had been raised as pureblooded as Draco himself.

They could both be exceptions, but the fact of the matter was, he only knew two halfbloods. If two out of two were exceptional, then were either of them exceptional? He had never cared to know any other halfbloods, so he didn't know.

He also didn't know what to think about the governmental change being promoted, either by Voldemort or the Wizengamot. His gut said that it was wrong, that there was nothing wrong with the past government, but he wasn't sure anymore whether that was right. He didn't know, and so many of the things that the _Daily Prophet_ published were new to him. He had known about the Lower Alleys before, but he hadn't known they were so extensive. He hadn't known how much Hogwarts cost to attend, nor had he truly known about the economic disparity between himself and the others. He had known he was _wealthy_, but imagine not being able to afford a wand, that most critical of magical implements.

He didn't have a wand currently, nor the ability to buy one.

He gave up on challenging Rosier for title. He didn't have a wand, and even if he convinced someone to lend him one or to buy him one, it would never work for him as his own wand did. They said that the wand chose the wizard, so it wasn't as if he could owl-order one. Even if he managed to get away from Rosier Place, there was an arrest-on-sight order out for him, so he couldn't just walk into Diagon Alley, access the Malfoy family vault at Gringotts and go to Master Ollivander's for a new wand.

From the _Daily Prophet_, it now seemed too risky for Draco to escape from Rosier Place and go to one of his traditional allies. The families he had been closest to had all been at Malfoy Manor, and he hadn't any idea what had become of any of them other than Pansy. Some of them had to have been helping Voldemort, because not all of them had been charged with corruption, but otherwise he had no idea. Many noble families were cracking up, paying the issued fines on demand in the hope of saving their manors. A few weeks ago, Draco had been confident that there were any number of families that would have been honoured to help him and give him sanctuary; now he wasn't so sure.

He gave up, and when Rosier himself came by, at the end of the week, he was only lounging on the sofa in his sitting room with a Quidditch magazine he had read fourteen times in hand.

"You know the statement," Rosier said, without beating around the bush. He was brusque, inconsiderate, but Draco could feel the intense worry and tiredness he was emanating.

"I intend no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone at Rosier Place," Draco reeled off, long used to the phrase, without thinking. This was routine by now, a test that he had failed six times thus far, and a test that he no longer expected to pass. Harry said he gave the test to everyone when they entered the grounds, but he and Rosier had never really gotten on, so he couldn't help but wonder if Rosier would always say he failed regardless of whether he did or not.

Rosier blinked – once, then twice. There was a flash of surprise, one that was quickly hidden, not that it made a difference when Draco could feel it in his core.

"Very well," Rosier said, after a brief pause and a frown of consideration. "You have the freedom of Rosier Place. I caution you against walking on the grounds, as they are heavily mined, but I will ensure that you receive a map within the next day showing the general boundaries where it is safe to walk should you wish to go outside. You may explore the common areas at your leisure, or I can request one of our elves show you around."

"Er…" Draco paused, now equally taken aback. "I can leave my rooms?"

Rosier sighed, a hint of annoyance colouring the air. "Did I not say so? Yes, you pass. If you'll excuse me."

Draco nodded, and Rosier disappeared down the hallway.

It was nice being able to leave his rooms, but in some ways it was more disorienting and troubling than staying within them, staring at a paper that seemed like a pet gone feral. He was with other people, but he wasn't one of them; they were always busy, talking about something or other, and some of their accents were hard for him to place. Few people acknowledged him, other than with a glance or an occasional nod before returning to their own conversations, and Draco didn't know how to approach anyone.

These weren't his kind of people, and he couldn't help but wonder who was pureblood, who was halfblood, who was Muggleborn. He saw the girl that Rosier had been with at the Ministry Unity Ball, working every day in a closed section of the Rosier library with a small group of others, and he wondered if they were all lesser-blooded and what they were all doing secluded in the library every day. Harry came by, as often as she had visited him before, but Draco now learned that she always did so with Lionel Hurst, likely _Leo_, and that she almost always had other business with Rosier. They would seal themselves, without him, in one of Rosier's reception rooms for hours, a ward on the door to prevent eavesdropping.

He didn't know most of Rosier's other visitors, even if he recognized them. The Lord Queenscove came by often, bullying Rosier into going to Queenscove for training. Cedric Diggory was there once, giving Draco a friendly nod before sequestering himself in a reception room with Rosier, the former Lady Rosier, and Professor Moody for a long meeting. Draco would have thought that he had known the former Lady Rosier best of anyone at this residence, since the elder Rosiers had been in the Lord Riddle's inner circle, but instead the former Lady Rosier seemed like a complete stranger. She sized him up, considering, every time she saw him.

People didn't even dress the same. He always wore robes, but Rosier, every time he caught a glimpse of him, never did. Neither did the former Lady Rosier, who was jarring out of robes, nor Professor Moody, nor any of the group who regularly gathered in the library. Harry, when she showed up, sometimes wore robes, and Blaise and Abbott, the one time he had seen them, were robed, but they were the exceptions. It seemed that, in the Rosier household, Muggle dress was the norm.

Everything had changed around him. Everything felt alien, and even free from his room and surrounded by people, Draco had never felt more alone.

XXX

Aldon faced his first and only challenge for title at six-thirty in the morning on July 3, 1996.

Formal challenges for title followed a specific etiquette. First, there was a declaration of intent from the challenger naming the time and date, delivered a minimum of three days in advance. Aldon had received this declaration by owl post, five days ago, from a third cousin named Owen Thomas. Aldon barely knew him, the family linkage being so distant, but he knew that his cousin was about ten years older than him, worked as an Auror, and was neither noble nor wealthy. He could appreciate why Thomas had opted to challenge him; with the Rosier title came the Rosier wealth, along with the manor. If the positions were reversed, and if he thought he could win, he might consider the same.

After the declaration of intent came the negotiation period. Negotiations could go until the date and time of the challenge itself, but if there was no resolution and the challenge was not withdrawn, then it would proceed on the date and time stated. With five days given, Aldon had asked around for more information about his third cousin.

Thomas was newly married, with a child on the way. He was a good Auror but had never been promoted off street patrols, and the Auror salaries had been frozen for years. He was in debt, and he and his wife lived in a rented apartment in one of the upper-class neighbourhoods of the Lower Alleys. He wanted a bigger place to live, for him and his family, but he couldn't afford the cost for the permit for a new magical household, let alone for the construction of a new building and wards. Aldon had written back, three days ago, naming a generous sum in exchange for a withdrawal of the challenge; not enough to pay for everything, but enough to cover his debts, the permit, and some of the construction.

Thomas hadn't replied. And that meant that on the stated date and time, he would be at Rosier Place for a formal challenge for title.

Title challenges were brutally difficult for the challenger. Aldon, as the sitting Lord, was permitted to use whatever spells, tricks, or weapons he had in his arsenal, including the powers behind Rosier Place. His manor would not accept a Lord that was clearly weaker than the sitting Lord, and so a challenger needed to demonstrate not only that they were stronger than the sitting Lord, but that they had the strength to dominate Rosier Place. The only thing that the challenger had in his favour was that all interference was forbidden – Aldon could not ask for help. Aldon could not ask Lina to build a trap for Thomas for him, nor could he trigger her blood-spells which littered the grounds, and he could not ask Neal for backup. To ensure that Aldon had no help, Rosier Place would seal itself during the challenge and no other person would be permitted to leave their rooms. Most of his guests would sleep through it.

The challenge started the moment the challenger stepped on the grounds. It did not end until one of them yielded or died.

So, on July 3, 1996 at six in the morning, Aldon woke up, and he picked up the long, flat case that held his sniper rifle, and he went to the roof of Rosier Place. He was freezing cold, cold enough to pull on one of the hated sweatshirts that Alex had thrown in his face, and his hands felt numb. He took his time, setting up the weapon, checking that all the parts were in order with hands that didn't quite feel real, checking down his sight to make sure that it was clear.

At exactly six-thirty, Owen Thomas crossed the wards on the western side of the Rosier Place. That was unexpected, though Aldon felt the ripple in his wards, and it only took him a few minutes to reposition. Then, at exactly six-thirty-six in the morning of July 6, 1996, Aldon stared down his sight, his breathing soft and even, his finger numb and heavy, and he shot Owen Thomas.

Aldon was not a good dueller. Three months of boot camp with Alexander Willoughby Dragić had taught him so, and he was constantly reminded of the fact when Neal forced him out into the lists with him. Aldon was zero to a hundred to both Alex and Neal, and even if they both had said he had improved, he was not a dueller. He was not a fighter, and his chances of surviving a wand duel with a cousin a decade his senior, with eight years of experience as a street patrol Auror, were nigh to none. Aldon had no interest in relinquishing his title, nor in being murdered for it, so he shot to kill.

That didn't mean that his breath didn't catch, that he didn't shudder, or that he didn't feel something heavy in his chest when he looked down at the body of his cousin.

"Sorry," Neal said, shaking his head as he shut the man's light brown eyes, only a half-dozen shades darker than Aldon's own. Aldon had asked Neal to stay the night before, in a spare bedroom in family quarters because he hadn't wanted to let it be widely known that he would be facing a title challenge in the morning. Lina was busy, Christie would have worried, and he didn't want Francesca or anyone at Blake & Associates to know. They would sleep through it, he had hoped, and he would never have to say anything about it. But he had wanted a Healer on site for this morning, and between Neal, Archie, and Hermione, he knew who he trusted the most to say nothing about it to anyone.

"I had hoped that a body shot…" Aldon sighed, turning away with a swallow. Neal was speaking in French, as he usually did when it was only the two of them, and with time it was becoming easier to simply respond in the same language. "That I would have hit something less critical. Damaging enough to force him to yield, but not kill him."

"Hard at that distance." Neal stood up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. "Especially in a magical environment. I'm impressed you made the shot at all. What do you want to do with the body?"

"We'll send him back to his wife." Aldon shook his head, clapping his numb, shaking hands, and one of his house-elves appeared. "Rolly, would you… please."

The house-elf bowed, his expression serious. "Of course, my Lord."

"Send a thousand Galleons with the casket," Aldon added. It was the amount he had offered for Thomas to withdraw his challenge, and enough to pay down Thomas' debts, pay for his burial, and for his wife to survive on until their child was born and she could return to work herself. He recalled that she, too, worked at the Ministry. "And I'll draft a personal letter expressing my condolences and promise safe passage from Britain if she wants to flee. We can slide them into one of the groups headed to the Wizarding Nordic Union."

Neal studied him for a moment, then reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You did what you had to do, Aldon. It's not your fault."

Aldon shook him off, rough. "I never said it was."

It took him more than an hour to draft a suitable letter expressing his condolences, his handwriting uncommonly messy, and another thirty minutes of thought before he tucked in a copy of Thomas' declaration of intent, just in case Thomas hadn't spoken to his wife about the challenge. The casket went out, just past eight in the morning, and Aldon tried to block it out of this mind. He had letters to decode, meetings to plan. According to Swallow, Voldemort was still aiming at legitimacy, using softer methods to try to sway people to his side; Vulture confirmed that he had been given considerable leeway to keep the wilder elements of Voldemort's army in line. Three hours of work, but when he looked at what he had completed, it didn't look like he had been at it for more than an hour.

At noon, Archie had arranged a meeting with the Lord Potter to discuss the use of a small group of Aurors, which Aldon desperately needed. He needed to secure the Floo, which was akin to having a half-open door in their wards, and the treaty clearly specified that all military action went through the Lord Potter. Aldon only needed a few people for a strike on the Floo Regulatory Authority, but even a few people meant he needed to deal with the Lord Potter. Aldon couldn't think of a worse day for it – he didn't want to leave the study, let alone face off against the erstwhile former Head Auror.

But it was necessary, and it wasn't that he _disliked_ Lord Potter. To be entirely honest, Aldon neither liked nor disliked the Lord Potter. He could honestly say that he found _Sirius_ annoying but generally helpful, and he disliked most of the others within the Light faction, but he only found the Lord Potter mildly irritating. According to Archie, however, the Lord Potter had no love for him. As Archie put it, Aldon's attitude at the treaty negotiations had put him off, but Aldon hadn't had a choice but to behave as he had. There was a certain image of himself he had needed to portray to defend himself and his House during the treaty negotiations, and if Lord Potter didn't like it, well. There was also his proposal, or more accurately his father's offer to open negotiations for an arranged marriage with Harriett Potter, but he had formally withdrawn it and if the Lord Potter still felt it was an issue, then that was his problem and not Aldon's.

Aldon didn't feel as sharp as he needed to be, but he took a deep breath and slid into the chair on the other side of the kitchen table, nodding at Sirius and hiding his surprise to see Harry and Hurst at the table. Archie came in behind him, taking the last seat.

"Still going around armed?" Lord Potter's voice was carefully neutral, even if he was eyeing the handgun at Aldon's side with suspicion.

"Challenge period," Aldon replied, his voice short as a flash of the morning came back to him. The cream-coloured scroll of parchment, sealed in red with the Rosier crest, looking somehow completely inadequate stuck on top of the plain, wooden casket.

"Challenge period only lasts a month from when you take title." The Lord Potter frowned, looking at him sternly over the thin rim of his glasses. "And the dates and times are always scheduled. It should be over by now."

"It is a month to _issue_ challenge," Aldon corrected, terse, settling uncomfortably in his seat and fighting valiantly to turn his tone into something a little less bland and emotionless, a little more flippant. "And even after the challenge period, there is always a risk. I have no formal Heir at this time, so I expect that I must be cautious of attempts on my life for the foreseeable future."

The Lord Potter sighed. "Sirius—"

"I don't mind," Sirius confirmed, shooting the Lord Potter a quick glance. "If it makes Aldon feel more comfortable to have his pistol, we don't mind. I've never seen him draw it."

"Hmm." The Lord Potter didn't look convinced, but let it go. "All right, then. You wanted to talk. What about?"

Aldon leaned forward, blocking the image of the brown casket leaving Rosier Place from his mind. He glanced over at Harry and Leo, sitting on one side of the table. "Should these two…"

"I thought they might be useful, so I invited them," Archie cut in with a quick smile. "They know a lot of people, might have some ideas for strategy and things too. Go on, Al."

Aldon nodded, ignoring the nickname, and focused on the Lord Potter with some effort. "The Floo Regulatory Authority. We have a problem – the Floo provides a gap in the wards for all our manors and our safe houses. We can password them and build in a few protective measures, but they still create a weakness in our wards. Passwords are easier to break than a solid ward, and collapse spells are a last-resort measure. They would cause structural damage to our homes that we can little afford, and they could be difficult to trigger in the midst of an attack, when we would need them most. We aren't using the Floo Network currently as it is, with the risks of being caught mid-transit. I would like to request a few of your fighters for a strike on the Floo Regulatory Authority to remove our manors and safe houses from the Floo Network."

Lord Potter's expression had shifted as he listened, a frown growing across his face. "If I thought that we were going to be in a longer war," he started slowly, "I would have no hesitation in supporting you. However, as I'm sure you know, we're planning a major strike on Malfoy Manor later this month, and I really do need all my fighters. Between the former Aurors, the Improper Use of Magic officers, and the people we've managed to pull from the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, we currently have a slight edge in trained people, and we need to strike soon, before Voldemort's ranks can swell much more. Unless you have information that Voldemort has successfully attracted more recruits?"

Aldon tilted his head back and forth for a moment, weighing what to say. A breeze ruffled the curtains, bringing on with it a damp, earthy scent, and suddenly Aldon was looking down at his third cousin: tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered as Aldon was not, and still in death.

The ground had been damp that morning.

He blinked, swallowing.

Neither Swallow nor Vulture had given him any solid numbers, he remembered. He didn't think either of them knew – Vulture still wasn't trusted, which was something Aldon would need to address at some point, and he suspected Swallow was consulted only on high-level decisions. At the time of the coup, Voldemort had had perhaps sixty dedicated followers; immediately after the coup, if all the survivors Swallow had reported had joined Voldemort, that would be a force of around seventy. That had been more than a month ago now.

"My sources say that he has," Aldon replied slowly, and it wasn't a lie. "But they are not clear on the numbers. At minimum, seventy, and I can say that Master Regulus Black, the best Ward Master in Britain, is with them. I would argue that this puts the warding issue at an even higher priority, regardless of the attack you're planning. If any wizard can figure out how to exploit the Floo weakness, it will be Master Black."

The Lord Potter tapped his fingers on the table – not rude, just thinking, a snapping noise that reminded Aldon of quiet clicks of his scope that morning. Aldon shook his head, a slight motion, dispelling the sound.

"You make a good case, Lord Rosier, but I just can't justify the use of resources. We need to strike now, before Voldemort is secure in his position and before he can recruit too widely. As it is, my core fighting force is only a hundred, since we have to keep the rest on guard for our manors, and the Welsh and Scots are contributing only an extra forty between them. Though…" The Lord Potter raised an eyebrow. "You undoubtedly already know that."

Aldon didn't deny it. Lina and Moody were both involved in the Lord Potter's plans, and Neal, also included, had been most helpful. Lord Potter was confident that the attack had good odds of success; while Voldemort held Malfoy Manor, he wasn't a Malfoy and couldn't formally claim the Manor. He couldn't harness the power or invoke most of the inbuilt ward defenses of Malfoy Manor, and his force would almost certainly be smaller than Lord Potter's. Neal thought Lord Potter was probably right, and that it was worth the risk. Aldon didn't disagree, but contingency plans were important.

"If we succeed with the Malfoy Manor strike, then we also won't need to remove our manors and safe houses," the Lord Potter continued, and he even sounded a little apologetic about it. "A strike on the Floo Regulatory Authority will be a risk for whoever I send, and I really do need every fighter I can get right now."

There was a small noise from Harry, sitting to Lord Potter's left, a huff of annoyance that she didn't quite stifle fast enough. The Lord Potter shot her a stern look, but her face smoothed over, expressionless, as easily as Rigel's had once done in the Slytherin Common Room.

"I would only need a few people," Aldon argued, leaning forward. His hands were gripping each other under the table, very tightly, his fingernails leaving small indents. "A strike on the Floo Regulatory Authority is constrained and faster to plan, and the intent would be to remain secret. Should all go well, the Authority should not know that the strike has occurred at all. It decreases risk for all of us while you plan your attack on Malfoy Manor. Further, should you succeed with your attack, it would not be difficult to re-register onto the Network once the hostilities are over."

"That's if your plan succeeds," the Lord Potter countered, shaking his head regretfully. "And if anything went wrong, it could put the larger strike in jeopardy. I can't risk it. Let's talk after the Malfoy Manor strike, if we don't succeed."

"We have detailed information about the Floo Regulatory Authority," Hurst interrupted, his voice a little flat. "I… used to know a few people who worked at the offices, and I've hit them before to connect the public Floo stations. They will also need to be disconnected. I'll do it – higher chance of success if I do it too."

"I'll go as well," Harry said, her voice quiet and with a worried look towards her friend. "With the two of us—"

"Harry…" The Lord Potter sighed, shutting his eyes, but Harry had a mulish expression on her face that Aldon recognized very well from Rigel.

"Dad, you can stop me from being involved in the Malfoy Manor strike, but I'm not part of your group. Neither is Leo." Harry's mouth was a stubborn line. "It's important, and after the Alleys… I'm volunteering. Is two enough, Leo?"

There was a pause. "We can bring Marek to watch our backs. Three should do it."

"Three. Do you think three is enough, Aldon?"

Aldon looked at her for a long moment. She didn't look like Rigel, and her appearance no longer made his core ring, but there was something about her still that screamed _Rigel_. Her chin was softer, rounder, even if her mouth was set in Rigel's stubbornness. She had a round face, without Rigel's sharper cheekbones, but her bright eyes were determined, just as Rigel's so often had been. Her hair was much longer, a womanly length, but Aldon could hardly tell with it tied in a knot at the back of her head, out of her way.

He shouldn't accept the offer, not with her father right there, not when her father had clearly told her not to be involved. But taking the manor houses off the Floo Network was important, it needed to be done for all their safety, and she was offering. And Harry, as Rigel or not, had always been an exception.

"If three is what I have, then three is what I will work with," Aldon replied, his own voice sounding rather more flat than usual. "We'll make it work. If that does not interrupt your plans too much, Lord Potter."

There was another long silence, but Lord Potter seemed focused on his daughter. Harry shook her head, firm, and the Lord Potter sighed. "Keep me informed," he said finally. "And for the love of Merlin, _don't get_ _caught_."

Aldon should have felt something, Apparating home from the meeting and walking across his grounds. He had gotten what he needed, so he should have been pleased. Or, at least, he should have had a vague sense of satisfaction.

He didn't. He felt nothing, numb, as if everything around him was passing him by. His hands had stopped trembling, or rather he had forced them to, but his limbs were still filled with a strange, numb, buzzing, and he still felt the kick of the rifle against his shoulder.

It had only been a few hours ago, but his grounds were clean, the spot where he had gunned down his cousin clean and bare. Even the grass didn't show any sign that a body had lain there, the blood having soaked through to the ground.

Only a few hours ago, in this spot, Aldon had killed a man he hadn't even known.

Owen Thomas was a man so distantly related to himself that Aldon had never met him. He had known his name and basic information, in the way that any pureblood noble knew his family tree, but they had not run in the same circles. Their last common ancestor had been Aldon's twice-great-grandparents; Thomas' great-grandmother, sister to Aldon's great-grandfather, had married into a prominent, if non-noble family. It was such a distant relation.

His cousin had had so many things working for him in his life. He had gone to Hogwarts, a Gryffindor, and he had become an Auror. He was married, his wife also working in the Ministry, and they were expecting. They lived in a very nice apartment in Unicorn District, which Hurst had informed him was one of the nicest areas of the Lower Alleys. They had been respectable. Thomas had just striven for _more._

He wished his cousin hadn't.

The whole day felt wrong, surreal. He hadn't slept enough, though Neal had tried to send him to bed at what he called _a reasonable hour, _and he had rolled around for what felt like half the night before falling into an exhausted sleep and waking up at his usual six in the morning. There had been no coffee today, nor a Wideye Potion, but Aldon didn't feel tired. The day simply felt unreal, like he was experiencing it all through a glass barrier.

He should check on the ACD project, he thought vaguely, taking the steps to his manor, one that was uncomfortably feeling more like his own with every passing day. The ACD group of Blake & Associaties, which was an intensely pared down unit of himself, Christie, Francesca, Albert, Jessica and Aman, had taken over the two study rooms in the library. It had taken a month and significant investment to plate the smaller of the two rooms in plastic: two thin sheets of polycarbonate, blue and silver, trapping a thin layer of insulating potion in aerogels. The door to that study room was plated the same way, with words reading _No Magic Allowed, Please Keep Door Shut_ prominent to the rest of the library, as they hoped it would decrease the ambient magical noise within sufficiently for electronics to function. There had to be some amount that was tolerated by electronics, because witches and wizards who lived in Muggle neighbourhoods such as Christie's used them without difficulty. It was only in magic-soaked environments such as magic schools or ancestral manors that electronics developed an unfortunate tendency to explode.

Francesca had lost something she called a boombox in the process, as it exploded a few days after the plating was done, but two weeks later it did seem like electronics could be used in the room. There was no power outlet, nor a way to connect to the outside, but it was progress enough for them to continue work on the ACD.

He paused in the corridor. The ballroom was open, one side of the wide doors ajar, and he hadn't opened it. As far as he knew, it had been shut since the SOW Party Gala when he was fifteen.

It was dark inside the ballroom – whoever had opened it had either not gone in, or they had left the lights off. Aldon frowned, reaching to his manor. Neal said that Queenscove fought him regularly, having its own opinions about how things should be done, but Rosier Place had never shown any personality of its own.

Rosier Place gave him a flash of the inside. Francesca was taking a few careful steps within, nervous as she looked around. She couldn't see anything in the darkness – but the chandelier took wand magic to light, he remembered.

He followed, drawing his wand and flicking off the spell to light the grand chandelier. Pale daylight flooded the room – it was a variant of _Lumos Maxima_, a cross between that spell and the Sunrise Charm. Francesca gasped, whirling around, her eyes wide.

"My apologies," Aldon said, looking down. "I … saw the door was open."

She didn't reply. Instead, when he looked back at her, she had turned back around and was looking around the grand ballroom.

Things had been different between them since the night of the Lower Alleys attack. She had never spoken of that night, and Aldon had taken his lead from her. If she didn't want to talk about it, then it was all the better that he did not, either. But she was softer when she spoke to him now, without the edge of cold professionalism she had adopted after the Unity Ball. It wasn't the same as before, but something new, something cautious and uncertain.

He was still interested. She knew it. They didn't talk about it.

The ballroom was, at least, clean. The house-elves had kept it cleared of dust, through it had the still, faintly musky smell of a room that had been shut for a long time. The floors were done in slate tile, two different shades of grey forming a great, seven-pointed star on the ground. The walls were plain stone, broken every dozen steps by wide, curved staircases leading to the seven balconies. Two for each balcony, sweeping towards the left and the right, and at the top of each, two wooden doors that would open to the outside. They would, if opened, have a beautiful view of the Rosier grounds.

Francesca took a few more steps in, running one hand lightly along one of the carved balustrades lining the stairs. Aldon swallowed, taking a few steps towards the closest staircase and steadying himself against a rail.

"It was … inspired by a prince's garden in Germany," he heard himself offering, his voice dry. "The balconies. If you go outside from that one in the centre, there are other steps that lead directly into the garden."

"It's beautiful," she murmured distantly, glancing up towards the domed ceiling. One of Aldon's ancestors had had the ceiling painted in the Muggle style of the time, and the ceiling was covered in images of flying witches and wizards with painted dragons in each corner. There were originally glitter-spells and movement charms imbued in the paint, but those had worn off a century ago, leaving only the colour. It was no more than a Muggle painting now.

"My ancestors liked their comforts." Aldon looked around his ballroom anew. Even if it was a part of his house, he had only been in the ballroom for his dance lessons and for the SOW Party Gala. But it _was_ a very beautiful room; the spacing between the balconies on the other side were even, the star on the floor subtly marked the dance floor, and even the painted ceiling, Muggle as it was, glowed, reflecting the chandelier.

"I was – I was looking for a place to dance," Francesca said, abrupt, turning around to face him. Her voice was too loud, a little embarrassed, but determined. Aldon frowned – it was unlike her. "There are too many people and traps outside, and so—so I went looking. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize." That couldn't be what she was thinking, though she wasn't lying – or rather, not fully. He thought she probably had been looking for a place to dance, or at least be alone, but there was something she wasn't telling him. "Rosier Place is…"

He hesitated, the ten feet between them seeming small. Rosier Place was jointly hers, and in theory she had some authority over his manor. He didn't know if she had realized it, and she certainly hadn't taken advantage of the other things that he had told her were equally hers. She had never asked about the Rosier bank accounts, but instead she had offered to pay him _rent_. He had declined, but his house-elves reported that she still regularly offered to contribute to household expenses.

She didn't think of Rosier Place as her own, so he corrected himself. "Anything we can do for you would be our pleasure. I will … I will find some time to restructure the light spells for the ballroom for you to trigger with a paper charm, and you may dance here whenever you please."

"No, I—" Francesca shook her head, and Aldon's core vibrated again. Not a lie, but there was something she was hiding. "I'm fine – I had just – I missed dance, that's all. I couldn't use a space so – so grand."

"No one else is using it." Aldon looked away, glancing up at the balcony behind him. "You might as well. It hasn't even been opened in two years."

"I still—" Francesca fell silent. "I don't even have any music. I broke my CD player when we were testing the magic-free room."

Aldon thought for a moment, then raised his wand and concentrated. "_Incipio Musica._"

The sound of a quickstep began playing in the ballroom. It wasn't as loud as musicians would have been, and the notes were tinny and too small for the space, but it was there.

"The quickstep?" Francesca laughed, the sound a little off even as she asked.

Aldon swallowed dryly. "_Incipio Musica_ requires that I know the song rather well, since it's… running off my memories of it to play. I'm afraid I don't know any of the music that Archie or Neal know and the, er, quickstep is rather frozen in my mind. My apologies."

"Hm." The noise she made was soft. "The quickstep is really – it's only a pairs song. I can't – it's not really something I can solo to."

Aldon hesitated, unsure. He shouldn't, but then, he didn't know what else he was supposed to do, either. She hadn't left – she hadn't bid her goodbyes and walked away, as she sometimes did, and she was chewing on something in her mind.

"Would you … care to dance, then?" he asked, uncertain. "I – I know how much you love dance. You must be missing it."

There was a long silence, as Francesca studied the ceiling, then she turned to look at each of the seven balconies. Her dark eyes were thoughtful.

"I guess – well, why not?" she said with a shaky breath, and Aldon felt some part of the surreal glass distance around him cracking. "Just – just once."

He took a deep, calming breath, approaching her carefully and trying to give her every opportunity to decide otherwise. He reached out towards her, hoping that his hands weren't shaking, but waited for her to put her hand in his, her other on his shoulder.

Her heels were not very high today, barely an inch. Without them, she was quite a bit shorter than he was, the top of her head level to his eyes, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed downwards, on Aldon's waistcoat just under her hand. Her hold was light, her left hand slightly bunched while her right was loose in his hand. She felt small in his arms, warm, and her hair gave off the scent of strawberries.

He swallowed, hard, struggling to come to the surface of the icy numbness that coated him. He wanted this to be real, he wanted to feel her warm body against his. He wanted her to be real, here, in the Rosier Place ballroom, one night of dancing that could be added to as many nights of dancing as she wanted. A ballroom like this was made for her, or for someone like her, for someone who loved dance and music and who would use this ballroom more than once in a decade. It was a beautiful room, deserving to be used, and he barely noticed that Francesca's hand in his was light, loose, or that she was biting her lower lip in thought.

They weren't doing anything complicated. They hadn't even left the ground, nor were they following any choreography. Aldon wasn't sure if he would even remember the complex choreography that she had created for the Ministry Unity Ball, if that was as burned into his memory just like the music. He had never tried it again, but it didn't seem like she was trying that either. She was relying on him, letting him lead her wherever he wished, and he spun her around in simple circles on the floor.

She didn't say anything, and Aldon searched for something to say. "Are you…" He hesitated. "Enjoying your stay at Rosier Place?"

There was a moment before she replied, and she still didn't look at him. "It's very nice."

"Is there anything I can do to make it more comfortable for you?"

"No. Everything is wonderful. The – your house-elves are very kind." She stopped a moment, letting Aldon turn her into a spin. "Um."

"Um?"

She was silent, her hand falling back in his, and they went on another round of the room. She was chewing on her words, the way she sometimes did when they used to speak by communication orb, and Aldon fought his urge to prod her into saying more.

The song had finished and had started once over again before she spoke.

"What was – um." She took a deep breath, and her voice when she continued was uncommonly hard. "What was that box this morning?"

Aldon froze, and Francesca stumbled, not expecting him to stop. He caught her, unthinking, scrambling for something, anything to say. "Er – I'm sorry?"

Time. More time for him to scramble for a lie, a half-lie, but caskets were readily identifiable, a particular size and shape. His mind was blank, a useless buzz filling the space instead of brilliant solutions.

"I woke early, a little after six," she said, quiet. "I couldn't get back to sleep. I – the wards, I think. Or maybe it was the manor. I don't know. I left my room and went for a walk. Not outside, just – just in the common areas. I heard a gunshot, somewhere above me."

She should have been sealed in her rooms, the way the others had been. He had assumed that she was, and that she would still be sleeping. Francesca and the others working on the ACD generally woke around eight, ate breakfast around eight-thirty, then began work by nine.

But he was sworn to her, and she was the joint owner for Rosier Place with him. Rosier Place must have made an exception for her, or as a joint owner, she must have had the right to be involved in his title challenges. He didn't know. He should have looked it up, but it hadn't occurred to him to do so.

He should have used his silencer that morning. He had one. But he had wanted Neal to hear the shot, so that Neal could try the doors immediately, so that he could meet up with Neal as soon as possible and they could run out towards his challenger. If he was alive and yielded, Neal would have tried to Heal him.

But it had taken two minutes for Neal's door to unlock, and another minute for Aldon to meet him, and then another four or five minutes to get out on the grounds. And Thomas was dead. Aldon reminded himself to breathe, schooling the reaction from his face and his body.

Francesca was still speaking. "I saw you and Neal running out on the grounds. I didn't follow, but you looked…" She paused, searching for words. "Upset, when you returned."

"Er—" Aldon said, then he cleared his throat, but Francesca hadn't stopped talking.

"I – I was already awake, so I got a book and a mug of tea – and I found a place where I could read, where I had, um, a view of the grounds. There's a window seat—" She cut herself off with a deep breath, looking away. "I saw the casket going out this morning, saw you running after it with a letter. Who died?"

Aldon bit his lower lip, looking for a way out. He could say it had been someone else, but that didn't make sense, not when everyone else was still here, when all was normal except for him. He felt strange, a little numb and icy, but that meant nothing to the bustle of Rosier Place. He could say he had been attacked, but it had been just Thomas, and just him, and it didn't look like an attack. Aldon had murdered him in cold blood, with a sniper rifle, long before Thomas was even in range of any spells. Long before Thomas could even see him on the rooftop, long before Thomas had even thought to guard himself against anything.

Bullets travelled faster than spells. Aldon tried to imagine it, what it would have been like, for Thomas – crossing over the wards, stepping onto the ancestral Rosier grounds. Was he confident, when he came, or was he nervous? Neal thought he would have been a combination of both. The only information Thomas could have had was Aldon's own performance at the Unity Ball, which Alex described for him as "an absolute fucking shitshow." Neal said that was being kind, and unleashed a description including prolific French and Chinese swearing, which Alex considered seriously before elaborating his own description to include Serbian profanity as well.

Thomas must have been reasonably confident he would succeed, so he would have crossed onto the Rosier lands with a sort of eager caution, perhaps. But he also had to have been somewhat nervous, because no one walked into a challenge without anxiety. Perhaps he had talked himself up beforehand, or perhaps he had focused on the things that he hoped to achieve. Aldon didn't know.

He wondered how Thomas felt about the six minutes of solitude. It had taken Aldon six minutes to reposition, to aim, and to fire. The grounds would have been quiet, nothing but the wind and the morning damp, silent. Thomas would have been on the alert, waiting for spells, waiting for Aldon to trigger something, and his wand had been in his hand when Aldon reached him. But there would have been nothing, nothing but the cold morning air and the fresh scent of dew on grass, and Aldon wondered if that had made him more confident, or less.

Death had come with the crack of a gun, possibly an unknown noise to him, and no light of spell fire.

He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want Francesca, standing in the circle of his arms, to know that he had taken a life this morning and he hadn't even had the decency to do it with his magic. He didn't want her to look at him and think less of him for it.

But there was no point in obfuscating. Francesca was smarter than that. She likely had her guesses, and his reaction had said enough. "It's not something—"

"Stop." Francesca looked up at him, her dark eyes hard. "Don't – don't put me on a pedestal, Aldon. Don't say that it's something I shouldn't know. You said if you died, I'd hold Rosier Place. If that's how it is, then you need to talk to me about things. You tell me – you say it's dangerous, but you make everything easy for me. You say there's a war, but you make it like it doesn't exist for me. If there's any chance that I'm going to have to hold Rosier Place, then – then you need to tell me what I need to know. I – in case you forgot, I was in the Tournament, too. I watched my friends being attacked, until AIM withdrew. I was here for the trial. I planned our performance at the Unity Ball, and I coordinated your conversations with Archie at AIM. I was with you in the Lower Alleys – it was _my _magic that used the spells you wrote for me. I'm not – I'm not useless, so don't treat me like I am."

His grip on her waist, on her hand, tightened. "You're not useless. I would simply rather that you focus on – on the things that you need to focus on. I – this morning – you don't need to know. It's over."

"And if things had happened differently?" She demanded, leaning forwards slightly, her voice low. "I woke for a reason. Was there a chance, this morning, that I would be holding Rosier Place? Was there a chance that _you_ would be leaving in that box?"

Aldon looked away. "Neal had instructions to get you out. Lina would have gotten you out too."

"What would he be getting me out _from?"_

She was relentless, her grip stronger in his and her left hand digging into his shoulder. He didn't want to tell her. Aldon had killed this morning, and that wasn't something he wanted her to know.

"Do I need to ask Neal instead?" They had stopped dancing, long minutes ago, and the quickstep was annoying, repetitive in his ears. "Do I need to ask Neal who you killed this morning? Do I need to ask Neal what kind of danger you might have put me in, without _telling_ _me?_"

He thought she would push him away, but her grip was as hard as ever.

"A third cousin," he said, the words twisting out of his mouth almost against his will. "He challenged me for the title. I tried to stop it earlier. I tried to pay him off, but he didn't accept it, because he wanted the title and all that came with it. I suppose – I suppose had I fallen, you would have had a chance to defend the title yourself. You are... currently the next in line."

Silence, but she didn't let go of him either. Her expression was hard, unreadable, and Aldon didn't know what to make of it.

This was Francesca. Francesca was soft. Francesca liked makeup and dance and romance novels. This was Francesca, who didn't have a wand and walked around a school as safe as AIM with a guard roster because John, her de-facto older brother, commanded it so. This was Francesca, who took care in how she dressed every morning, Francesca who only wore skirts and rarely let people see her without a layer of makeup, Francesca who loved beautiful things and painted them in movement and light in the air.

But this was also Francesca who made the ACD. This was Francesca who, in her own way, wanted to burn the world down as much as Aldon did. More than Aldon did, perhaps; Aldon only wanted to take down the British Ministry of Magic, but Francesca wanted to take down the whole wand-using establishment. This was Francesca who had pushed herself and John through the reportedly brutal AIM Trials and through the Tournament, Francesca who had gotten on a stage with him at the Unity Ball and turned beauty into a weapon. This was Francesca, lightning witch.

Some magical theorists had done research into what core types meant. Purebloods, and many halfbloods and Muggleborns, tended to fall within the big four: fire, water, earth or air. Eastern witches and wizards tended to regard metal as a separate element, and read air as wind, but most of the people Aldon knew fell, quite strictly, within those lines. Archie and Hermione, like almost half of all Healers, had water cores; Harry and Alice had fire cores. Ed had an earth core, and Neal was synonymous with his winter wind. And Aldon himself was an ice core, a variant on water. Some theorists said that witches and wizards with water cores were easy-going, laid back and even keeled in personality, while those with fire cores had burning passion and a will to get things done. Those with earth cores were said to be steady and reliable, while air or wind cores were flighty and temperamental. For the most part, Aldon thought it was meaningless garbage. _He_, by that theory, was supposed to be stiff, stubborn and unchanging, which by the evidence of the last few years was _utter_ garbage.

They said that those with lightning cores were explosive. They were quiet, unremarkable, barely even noticeable, until the thunder cracked and suddenly, they were there, bright and shining and unmistakeable.

How could he have forgotten? For all that Francesca was soft, for all that she loved beautiful things and didn't have a wand, she still had an edge to her. She still wanted to light the world on fire. Somewhere, after his first kiss, he had missed it – he had mixed her with a million pictures of what he thought any other girl or woman would have wanted, and somewhere in there he had lost _her_.

"I see," she said, her voice calm, relaxing, and Aldon blinked.

"I killed someone this morning, Francesca," he repeated, not entirely clear that she understood. She had asked him, yes, but perhaps she hadn't quite connected it in her head, perhaps she didn't feel the blood slick on his hands right now.

She gave him a very odd look. "Yes."

Aldon blinked, not sure if he should repeat himself again. He did it anyway. "I killed someone."

"Yes," she agreed, nodding as if he were particularly slow. "And I think – if Neal was helping you and he knew, then it was probably necessary."

Aldon felt the rest of the glass bubble around him dissolving, disappearing slowly into the air. He drew in a long breath, one that felt like the first one he had taken all day. "Neal wasn't helping. No one can help on a title challenge. Neal was there in case – in case we needed Healing."

Francesca shrugged, the movement tiny. "Neal wouldn't have been involved at all unless he thought it was necessary."

"Oh."

She didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to care, and Aldon was still holding her, and there was still music in the air.

Not knowing what else to do, Aldon started leading her on another round as the quickstep started over again. Aldon felt strange, light, almost giddy. Maybe he had killed someone, but Francesca didn't seem to care. He could dance this quickstep forever, if she wanted him to dance it with her. He would learn a dozen new dances if she wanted him to dance with her.

He would redo the whole manor if she wanted it. He would likely have to – it had only been a little more than a month, and Francesca was chafing at needing to use _owls_ instead of _the internet_. Aldon himself missed using his laptop, the risk of Apparating to Christie's penthouse in London a little too much to do with any regularity. The research didn't exist yet to support full insulation of Muggle electronics from magic, but it would have to soon.

"Aldon."

"Hmm?" He looked down – Francesca had subtly wormed herself a little closer to him, and he hadn't argued. He should have, he was sure.

"So – so what do I need to know? If you – if anything happens."

Aldon couldn't help but tug her in a little closer. His dance tutor had once said that in a waltz, he should be able to hold a sheet of parchment between himself and his partner without magic, so really, the loose way they had been dancing before was _incorrect_. She was warm against him. "Nothing will happen. He was – my only challenger. The challenge period is over, and the fact I sent him back in a box – money or not, people will talk. They will think twice."

She stared up at him, considering, and he saw doubt in her dark eyes and grimaced.

"I'll – I'll show you the keys," he murmured, looking away. "The primal keystone, and the wards to seal the manor. But I don't—"

He stopped, trying to phrase it properly.

"You don't…?"

"If I fall," he said finally, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Don't stay here, Francesca. Don't claim the manor. Just get the research and development team out and let the Rosier House fall. The ACD is bigger than Wizarding Britain. Holding the manor isn't worth anything."

She didn't answer for a few minutes. Her expression was thoughtful, and she felt small, comfortable in his arms.

"Okay," she conceded, her voice quiet. "What else is happening, right now? With the war?"

Aldon sighed, looking away and thinking about what he could say. What he could say, what he wanted to say, and what he should say.

He could say just about anything. He could tell her that nothing important was happening at all, and she almost certainly wouldn't believe him, nor could he hide it from her if she went and asked Neal, or Archie, or Hermione. She was close, as close as someone like Francesca ever really got to anyone, with all three, and at least Archie and Hermione would tell her everything they knew, and she would know that Aldon was lying to her. And if he lied to her, she wouldn't trust him.

If he lied to her again, she would probably be _right_ not to trust him.

He could say that it wasn't for her to know, or that she shouldn't know, but he suspected that would go over about as well as trying to avoid telling her about the title challenge. She was in Wizarding Britain. If Aldon died, she was the next in line to Rosier Place, and she had some status, some limited powers, with his manor while he was alive. They were linked, the two of them, by his own making. There were things she needed to know, and there was that thing about trust. If he told her outright that he wouldn't tell her, that was him telling her that he did not trust her.

He didn't like the inevitable conclusion, but it stared at him in the face and dared him to deny it. And he could, but he wouldn't, because even if he didn't survive these years, he wanted Francesca to, and that meant there were things she needed to know.

"Harry, Lionel Hurst and I are planning an attack on the Floo Regulatory Authority," he said quietly, keeping his voice low. "We need to remove all of the safe houses off the Floo Network, because it compromises our security. Then we probably need to work out a better way of transporting people between our safe houses, because Apparating, crossing into unwarded space, is always going to be dangerous. I was considering Portkeys, which can be coded to cross particular wards, but the difficulty of that would be that if anyone misplaced one, it would be a trivial matter for someone else to break in. There's always coding magical signatures into the wards, but practically that can only be done for a few people…"

Francesca's hand slid down his chest, and he stopped, barely breathing, but it was only a motion for him to stop babbling.

"Couldn't you just set up a different Floo Network?" Her voice was thoughtful. "In Wizarding America, there are three Floo networks: Magifloo, Floowhere, and Public Floo. You can only Floo to something that's on the same network, so there are these crowded Floo hubs to change networks. It's – they're really scary, always too crowded with people running everywhere, but it's something."

Aldon hadn't known that – or, if he had, he had forgotten it. He tilted his head, considering. "It would need to be a very limited network," he murmured, thinking it through. "Here. Queenscove. Peverell Hall. Possibly Grimmauld Place, though Grimmauld Place is at greater risk than the others, so maybe not. But we don't know how to set up a Floo Network – the Floo Regulatory Authority has always guarded the secret and maintained the network."

Francesca shrugged. "If you can get the plans, we can – I think we can work out how to set up a Floo Network. It's not a secret in America, just technical, and not very well known to the public. It – I don't think it is necessarily ideal, it doesn't solve the problem, it just – I guess it only makes it so no one can Floo in except from another safe house. I can – we can think about it."

"It would be a step in the right direction, at least," Aldon said, his spirits lightening. She was so close to him, and she wasn't angry at him, and those facts alone were things for which to be grateful. "I will ask Harry and Hurst to look for the Network plans, or a manual, or other guide, so long as they can do so safely. Anything that might help."

Francesca nodded, and a small smile flickered across her face. "And? That – that can't be everything."

Aldon was silent for a moment, his feet moving them without thought across the floor. When he was silent for a moment too long, Francesca slowly started pulling away, and Aldon could feel the sliver of cool air separating them. He'd let her go, of course he would, but he didn't _want_ to, and the next words came out of his mouth without any conscious thought.

"The Lord Potter is planning a major strike on Malfoy Manor, being held by Voldemort, within the next three weeks – the goal is to destabilize him before he is truly entrenched, while the numbers are still in our favour and before Voldemort can recruit too extensively," he said, all in a rush. "Lina, Moody, Neal and the Queenscoves are all involved in that strike."

Francesca stopped pulling away, fitting in snugly against his side once more, and Aldon silently breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that this moment could last forever, and he could feel the magic draining out of it already, but he wanted it to make it last. As long as possible, or forever, and this room could be hers, and he'd make the internet work at Rosier Place somehow, if she would just stay here in the circle of his arms. He chanced a glance down at her, and saw she was looking away, worried.

"Three weeks. I can't – I have enough materials to make maybe five more prototype ACDs, but I can't – I won't be able to get more materials in that time, and we're not ready," she said, her voice soft. "Five prototypes, and only for the people who fit within our range…"

"Start with the Queenscoves." Aldon's reply was immediate, and he didn't even think about it. He didn't have to think – the Queenscoves were his closest personal allies for the moment, bar none, and Neal already had exposure to the ACD. They would be easiest to train on its use, but Aldon also had no compunction about favouring his personal allies. Not if there were so few ACDs, and he didn't know how most of Lord Potter's army would react to them anyway. "If there's only five, start with the Queenscoves, and then the Lord Black. Then Harry, and Hurst, but they're less of a priority – they won't be in the main attack, and the Floo Regulatory Authority strike shouldn't need it."

Francesca nodded. "Albert and I will go test them this week, then," she said. "And let's hope – we'll have to hope that the magic-free room is insulated enough that we can build in there. And I'll need a generator."

Aldon smiled, looking down at her. If she wanted a generator, he would find a way to get her one. "I'll put it on my list."

He wanted to kiss her.

He didn't.

XXX

The Floo Regulatory Authority was housed in a building about three stories high, just steps off Craftsmen's Alleys. The outer façade was clean white stone, cut in a way to preserve its natural grainy texture, not at all weathered with the times. A set of low, flat steps led to the wide wooden doors, while windows marked the three floors of the building. The shutters were open, meant to be decorative, and Leo had no doubt that the windows were well warded.

That didn't matter. Rosier had had an inside person at the Floo Regulatory Authority, and Leo had been there before. It was a public building, and not one that managed money, just an administrative office, so the wards were weak. The Ministry didn't care about the threat of burglars, and to be fair to them, the Floo Regulatory Authority was a very bad target unless one was interested in the Floo itself.

Few people were. A Floo connection cost only three Sickles per month, and Floo Powder consistently cost only two Sickles per scoop. It was easier to pay the Floo Regulatory Authority for a secure transportation network than to try and reinvent it.

"There." Harry's voice was a whisper in his ear. He glanced over – she was scanning the building, and she gestured towards one of the upper levels. "Third floor, second from the left. The red ribbons."

"Could've made it easier for us," Marek muttered darkly. "Climbin' this building is going to make you stand out. A lower floor, even?"

Wordlessly, Leo pulled out his wand and slapped his lieutenant with a Disillusionment Charm. Since the Alleys burned, he had hardly been talkative, yet Harry and Marek still hung around him. He didn't know why. "It's an opening into the building – the ribbons hold something to deal with the wards. Don't complain. Keep a lookout somewhere discreet. Usual alarm spells if you see something off."

Leo could barely make Marek out against the background, but he heard the sigh. "You got it, boss. Good luck."

"Don't need luck," Leo retorted, almost a little harsh, but no one commented. No one ever commented. They should. "Let's just get this over with."

He couldn't see Marek's reaction, but he felt the slight breeze as his lieutenant slipped away. He glanced at Harry, whose green eyes were staring at him in concern, but she quickly blinked and looked away, back at the dark building.

"Shall we?" She asked instead, her voice mild.

"Can you climb, or do I need to levitate you?"

She shrugged, not bothered by the abrupt question. "I'll climb. I practiced, when I was abroad. Mostly in trees, but I'll keep up, Leo. Don't worry about me."

Leo snorted, but he didn't comment, and neither did she. Instead, he cast another Disillusionment Charm on himself and headed for the building. Harry could follow, or not.

She followed him, more often than not. Leo hadn't asked, but she somehow found him and checked in on him and on the other refugees from the Lower Alleys every day, bringing Potions and spending time helping his mother Heal the injured. He suspected that she had gotten into a row with her parents when she returned and that she was partially avoiding being at home, but he hadn't asked her about it.

He would have once, he knew. Not anymore. The new rules of their friendship were simple: he didn't push her, and since he didn't push her, she didn't push him. He let her follow him, and they didn't talk at all except about what needed to be done. He didn't want to talk about anything else.

What was there to talk about, anyway? How he felt didn't matter – it didn't change the fact Rispah was missing, presumed dead, along with most of his closest friends in the Alleys. It didn't change the fact that a third of his Alleys, both in population and in area, was gone. It didn't change the fact that he had failed to protect the people who had counted on him.

Talking meant nothing. All he could do was act, and so when Rosier said he needed someone to break into the Floo Regulatory Authority to remove safe houses, including the places that some of his own people were being housed, of course he had volunteered.

He wished Harry hadn't come with him. This was something he could have done alone, a straightforward task that didn't need more than one person. But she had volunteered almost as soon as he had, and her father hadn't been able to talk her out of it, and with her along he hadn't had much choice but to bring Marek along too.

The stone was rough under his hands, but he found handholds easily, and he heard the rasp of cloth on stone that told him that Harry wasn't far behind. He ignored her in favour of reaching for the next stone, the next handhold, the next ledge.

The ribbons were tied to a weakness in the wards, a ward tag that would let Leo and Harry slip inside with no one the wiser. He grabbed one just before hoisting himself onto the window ledge and swinging his legs inside.

He was standing inside an office, one with a grand desk on one side, stacked high with parchment. The chair behind the desk was huge and leather, pulled slightly away from the desk, and an inkwell held two elegant eagle feather quills. Leo shook his head, giving the scrolls a cursory glance over – several letters from the Ministry, a firm request for details of the Floo Network, supply contracts with various ingredient supply companies…

There was a rustle of paper behind him, and he saw Harry pulling out a notepad and pen. She slipped behind the desk, looking at the contracts while muttering. "Scottish fireflowers, that's not surprising, but I suspect that can probably be replaced by just about any kind of fireflower… Woundwort, that _is_ a little surprising, and it's mixed with ground Ashwinder eggs and salamander blood. That can't be everything, but it's a good start."

"Reinventing Floo powder?"

The question was meant to be playful, a little teasing, but when it came out, it was monotone, rude. He wondered if she would snap at him, or if she would glare, or maybe she would simply walk away from him. It would be better if she did.

But she didn't even look at him, still penning ingredients into her notebook. "If Aldon does manage to make a new Floo Network, it would be better if we could make our own Floo Powder. Be stupid to be caught buying Floo Powder in an apothecary."

"Breaking a six-hundred-year secret?"

Harry flipped through the pages on the desk, checking the names and amounts and making a few more notes. "It can hardly be that secret – there are Floo Networks worldwide. If it weren't for the fact that Ignatia Wildsmith managed to curse the recipe so that no one could write it down, it would be common knowledge." She closed her notebook, tucking it away, and pulled out her wand. "I'll figure it out. Let's move on. _Hominem Revelio!_"

Leo dodged ahead of her, and he was halfway to the door before the spell dissipated, unable to find a hidden wizard. The corridor outside was dark, silent, and they moved down the hallway slowly. Leo kept his ears sharp, while Harry cast _Revelio_ spells every two or three steps. He wasn't sure why she bothered; the spell wouldn't give a different answer so quickly, and Marek would give them a warning if he saw anyone approaching the building. But he also didn't see any harm in it, so he let it be, padding down the wide, wooden staircase onto the second floor.

The Network itself was kept underground, from what Rosier's contact had said, but most of the analysts who managed the system worked on the second floor. Rosier suspected that this was where they would be most likely find a manual, or some other guide to how to take their safehouses off the Network. Leo had only ever broken in to put something _on _the Network before, and he would have appreciated if Rosier could have provided them with a little more information, but Rosier had only shaken his head.

"My contact isn't one of the analysts," he had said, curt, and Leo hadn't asked anything farther.

They walked into a huge room, cavernous in the darkness. Windows lined nearly three sides of the room, looming, most with huge desks underneath scattered with more parchment, quills, and messy diagrams. The room felt too still, empty, as if it was waiting for something. It smelled of new parchment and ink, spilled coffee and the slightly smoky scent of old magic.

"Somewhere in the centre, I think," Harry murmured to him, ghosting ahead and methodically riffling through one of the stacks of parchment on a central desk. "New analysts start in the middle of the room, and they move to the windows as they gain experience. New analysts are the most likely to still need to rely on a manual."

"Or, we should just avoid the windows because someone might _see _us," Leo countered, but his voice didn't have much bite to it as he picked another desk at random and began opening the drawers. They needed to find a manual of some kind, not only for Rosier but for themselves. Putting things onto the Network was much easier than taking things off. All he had had to do to add a node was slide a work order to add a Floo point, purposely misdescribing the location, into the appropriate stack of paper with other work orders. No one ever thought to look into people putting their homes, new restaurants or businesses onto the Network.

Taking things off the Network was very different. No one chose to take their homes off the Network. There was no convenient stack of removal work orders at the Floo Regulatory Authority, and any request to remove a location necessarily drew attention. They also couldn't simply disguise the location removed as something else, as they did to put something on the Network, because it would likely only result in the wrong location being removed. Taking something off the Network, especially locations that had been on it for centuries or more, needed a deeper understanding of the magical principles involved.

The desk he was searching didn't seem to have anything helpful, so he moved onto the next one. There had to be a guide or manual of some kind, somewhere, if only because the process of setting up a Floo Network was an industry secret. The most junior analysts would still be studying how to operate the Floo Network, which Rosier thought was likely runic in setup. Every analyst hired at the Floo Regulatory Authority in the past fifteen years had had a NEWT in Ancient Runes, and wands hadn't been as common in the fourteenth century, which was when the Floo Network had its origins.

Harry had shuddered, her expression turning to stone at the mere mention of runes, but she hadn't said anything further about it. Leo hadn't asked.

"I found it," Harry said, four desks over, holding up an old, bound volume. "It includes helpful diagrams, but I hope things will be tagged, too. My runes aren't that good. Come on."

Leo nodded, shutting the last drawer he had been looking through. Harry cast another _Hominem Revelio_ spell, which came back empty, though Leo hadn't expected otherwise. Burgling the Floo Regulatory Authority was hardly a challenge, not compared to other targets he had hit before. They had had everything in their favour for this task – an inside man to create a hole in the wards, a weakly defended office building, and surprise.

He could do with a little more danger, personally. A little danger would have gotten his adrenaline pumping, given something physical to focus on. If he were alone, he would have considered doing something to draw attention, something that he would need to fight his way out from, something that would let him move for a few minutes instead of being trapped with his thoughts. But he couldn't – not with Harry following him. He had no doubt that she could fight, but, well…

What Leo wanted, he didn't want to risk for her.

He followed her grimly in the silence as she led the way down two more flights of stairs into the basement, tossing small _Lumos _in the air after they were out of sight of any windows. There were grand, carved doors at the bottom, and Harry examined them with a keen, if troubled, eye.

"I don't like this," she murmured, pulling her wand out and hitting it with a spell that she didn't explain. There was a grand, bell-like noise, but Leo didn't hear any wailing alarms, no whisper of spellwork. "Locked. _Alohomora!_"

There was nothing, no satisfying click. Harry shook her head. "_Resero!_"

Nothing. Absently, Leo reached over the touched the handle, hissing and withdrawing his hand when it burned him. Harry shot him a worried look, but he shook his head. He shouldn't have tried, it was stupid, and it wasn't as if the door wouldn't have protections against brute force. He gestured for her to go back to working on the door as he breathed through it, checking his hand.

It was an angry red, but not that bad, just painful. He flexed his fingers, checking to see how bad it was, and winced as another flicker of pain went up his arm.

"Don't aggravate it," Harry said, throwing him another worried look. "I can Heal it, Leo. If you want."

"Don't bother," Leo retorted. "The door is more important. We can't know for certain whether we've tripped any alarms, and we might have to move fast if anyone shows up."

Harry frowned, but turned back to the door. "You don't have to do this to yourself, Leo."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Harry shook her head, resigned, and raised her wand again. "_Evulgate!_"

The door glowed, and Harry examined it, an annoyed look coming into her eyes. "It wants a password."

"Check the book."

"It can't be that easy, can it?" Harry looked down at her manual, frowning as she paged through the first few pages. "No, there's no way it can be that easy."

"People are stupid." Leo shrugged, gesturing to the book. "Check to see if there's something in the book."

Harry was skeptical, but turned to the book and kept paging through it. Rosier wanted them to be in and out of the Floo Regulatory Authority, removing the locations they needed, and he wanted it done with no one the wiser.

Leo had asked how opposed Rosier would be to something blunter, and Rosier had shrugged. It was more important to get them off the Network, so the fall-back plan would be for him and Harry to destroy enough of the Network to make it look like a general attack, rather than one with a specific purpose. If it were just him, he would have gone for that right off – it was much easier than the delicate operation that Rosier wanted. But Harry, beside him, seemed keen to at least try to keep their entry and exit a complete secret, rather than falling back on the destruction plan.

"At least I have unlimited attempts," he heard Harry muttering as she flicked rune after rune at the door. Most of them did nothing, but there were a few that made the runes on the door glow lightly. Those made her frown, and she shifted slightly, throwing another grouping of runes. "It's not one rune – it's a series. Hmm…"

Her notebook came back out, and she crouched down, making notes. She put the manual in front of her, flicking through the pages. Leo glanced back down at his burned hand, flexing his fingers again to check for mobility, then he pulled out his wand to cast a _Tempus_ – it had been an hour already, between scaling the walls, searching for the manual, and now at the door.

Harry ignored him, pulling out another book from the small bag that she was carrying – a rune dictionary. She set it on the floor, picking her way through it and comparing the entries with something in the manual. "Oh, for—"

She rolled her eyes and flicked through the runic dictionary again, picking out three more runes. "It's just the bloody _motto_ for the Floo Regulatory Authority, in runic form," she muttered to him, annoyed. "What idiocy!"

"If thirty analysts need to know the passcode, it can't be that hard," Leo replied, crossing his arms over his chest. A few months ago, the words would have been light, mischievous, and he would have paired it with a bump on her shoulder, or a tug at her new ponytail, or _something. _Today, the words just felt heavy, harsh, and the most he could do was gesture meaninglessly in the air to show that he hadn't meant it that way.

Harry tilted her head in acknowledgement and flicked a series of seven runes against the carved door. They glowed, bright orange, and there was a sound of shifting wood and metal, and the door swung forward.

Inside the room, there was a huge wheel, set around a huge, hot fire and flue. Leo reached out, touching the great, carved stone lightly. It was warm, a second flash of heat aggravating his burn, and he pulled it back quickly as Harry leaned over to examine it in more detail.

Underneath the table were thousands of pins, each marked with a parchment tag noting its location. Many of the flags were old, yellowed, and Harry visibly winced as she looked them over. She stared at them all for a moment, then flicked her wand at the wheel. "_Accio _Grimmauld Place pin!"

Nothing happened, and Leo laughed, leaning over to look at the tags. The room was warm, almost too warm, the air hot and choking.

"It was worth a try," Harry said with a tiny smile, barely audible over the crackling of the flames. She reached for the Floo manual and squatted down to be eye-level with the pins, flipping the manual open and running one finger down what seemed to be a table of contents. "Would have saved us time if it had worked. There has to be something in here about how it's organized – ah, a section on adding and removing locations onto the Floo Network. Give me a few minutes."

Leo shook his head. The room was too dark, the heat inducing sleepiness, and their _Lumos_ charms too weak for reading for any length of time to be feasible. This would take longer than a few minutes, and he leaned over and started looking through the tiny parchment tags.

The tags weren't in runes, or at least not fully. They were location names, or family names, and family names tended to be followed by a runic symbol or a number – no doubt because there were multiple houses attached to any given family. _The Burrow_. _The Rook. Diggory 143. Fawcett 4661a._ He moved on, taking a few steps around the wheel.

Harry was standing up now, the manual open on the top of the contraption, and she was tracing something on the table. Some of the runes on the wheel were lighting up, and the lower level, holding the pins, rotated to face her. She nodded, apparently understanding something, and crouched back down to look at the parchment tags. "It's organized by region. I've found London. What did you register the public Floo stations as?"

"Youssef Residence, Wilson's Bakery…" Leo leaned down where she was, and grimaced. There were a thousand pins in the section devoted to London region alone, and he started paging through them, looking for names he recognized, Harry beside him. "This is going to take hours."

"It's only one in the morning," Harry replied, sounding grim. "We have four hours until sunrise, so we better get started. You start from that side – London will be the hardest."

Leo shut his eyes, steeling himself for a very painful and tedious few hours, before he leaned over and started paging through the tags.

It was too warm, and too long, and it made his eyes hurt reading the spidery, ancient handwriting to find the reference tags for the forty-seven locations that they had to remove. He kept at it, fueled by a hard determination, fighting the soporific heat of the flames in front of them. Harry found Grimmauld Place first, ripping it out with a satisfied look on her face, while Leo, starting from the other side, found most of the ones in the Lower Alleys – the former Dancing Phoenix was there, the Maywell Clinic, sixteen public Floo stations that he and the Rogues before him had hidden under various family and business names, including six in Alley districts unaffected by the Fiendfyre.

It would be inconvenient to disable them, but he pulled out the pins anyway. Hidden as they were, the public Floo stations were as much a risk as they were a convenience, for an enemy that obviously didn't care about collateral damage. Any of the Court of the Rogue who still lived, who hadn't died in the Fiendfrye or who weren't among his refugees, would need to find other ways of travelling.

They moved onto the Southeast, then the West Country, the Midlands, Northumberland. Rosier Place came off, then Peverell Hall, an unusually difficult tag to find where the ink had almost completely faded from view. The Shafiq Mansion came off, then Dumbledore Tower, then Goldenlake Manor, Naxen Hall, Queenscove. Nearly half of the Scottish pins came out, then almost all the Irish locations, though neither had ever had many Floo connections. Harry had paused, seeing the gap left, then had quickly moved to shift the other tags to hide the gap.

"We better hope no one looks too closely at this," she said, her voice quiet in the silence. "It looks weird that there are so few locations in Scotland and Ireland."

Leo gave the wheel a cursory once-over. He couldn't tell the difference – or rather, if there was a difference, it wouldn't be obvious at a glance. There were still thousands of pins stuck in the table, and they had spent another two and a half hours searching for the locations to remove. Leo still thought it would have been more efficient to simply blow it up.

"It looks fine," he replied, gathering the pins to pour into Harry's small bag. "It's almost dawn. We should hurry."

Harry nodded, swinging the bag back over her shoulder and walking over the room carefully to ensure that nothing appeared amiss. The room was clear, looking almost the same as when they arrived, and they left, shutting the runic door behind them. There was a hard, satisfying click, and they made their way up to the main level.

The back door was locked, but it was a faster exit than the windows, and much less risky than the front doors. Leo put another Disillusionment Charm on himself, Harry doing the same, and they slipped out into the back alley. Harry carefully locked the door after them with a simple _Colloportus_, waiting to hear the mechanism clicking behind her, while Leo sent a tiny, _all clear_ signal spell to Marek and headed for the meeting point, almost six hundred metres away, out in Diagon Alley near Florean Fortescue's.

Marek was already waiting when he arrived, and Harry was only steps behind him as she dropped her own Disillusionment Charm.

"So?" Leo asked.

"Quiet as a mouse," his lieutenant reported, giving both him and Harry a small grin. "All good?"

"All good," Harry confirmed, expressionless. "Back to Rosier Place – I'm sure Aldon is waiting. We're hours later than we expected we would be."

Leo didn't reply, but he nodded a confirmation when Harry glanced back at him, waving at her to go ahead. He would follow, but he needed a moment to himself – just a moment to stand, to look around the dark streets of Diagon Alley, the most upscale and well known of the hidden Alleys in London. They were all his Alleys, or they had been once, but none of them felt the same.

It was the height of summer, but the Alleys were still, silent and cold. If Leo concentrated, he thought he could feel the heartbeat that was missing, the soul that had been torn away, the empty gap in the Alleys that Leo wasn't sure could ever be filled again.

It hurt.

He turned on the spot and Disapparated.

XXX

_ANs: This was a very hard chapter to write and I suck at writing I'm sorry everyone. I am also very bad at writing despotic-pretending-not-to-be-despotic-tyrant, so everyone can thank meek_bookworm and my spouse for their patient editing for that news article! And this was also the chapter where Francesca ended up being a surprise to everyone, including her writer, and uh... I didn't expect her to throw down against Aldon in this chapter. But she did and much editing had to happen for later plot planning as a result. Why, Chess? _

_So those of you who check my profile for the update schedule will already know this, but after this chapter, the next one won't be released until May 22, 2020 because of the Rigel Black Exchange happening on AO3, which will include a handful of works from yours truly, including what you can consider several cut-scenes from RevArc, one spin-off raised-by-Christie!Aldon and, hopefully, a dozen other Rigel Black fics from others! Everything will be released on May 10, 2020 at archive of our own (without spaces).org [SLASH] collections [SLASH] RigelBlackEx [SLASH] works._

_As always, please leave me a comment or review, they are the fuel that keeps the engine going._


	5. Chapter 5

"And this is the primal keystone to Rosier Place," Aldon said, brushing one hand along the dark stone that made the desk in his private study. Francesca looked around the room – the furnishings didn't look like the sort of things that Aldon would choose for himself. The bookshelves that lined one wall were almost entirely devoid of books, instead showing elegant if useless items from around the world. There was a golden globe, shining and outdated, showing the USSR rather than the conglomerate states that the Soviet Bloc had devolved into more than five years ago; a white, faux-marble bust of someone who had to be related to Aldon, with his same nose and keen eyes; a porcelain vase that had a vaguely Asian antique look, but more like what a Westerner would think of as Asian rather than an actual Asian antique.

The only part of the room that looked like Aldon's was the desk. It was clean, with a black blotter and a stack of leather notebooks piled high on one side. A wooden box held a mix of quills and fancy fountain pens upright, and there was a bottle of ink and stick of wax beside it. A basket sitting on the bookshelf nearby held scrolls – blank, Francesca guessed.

She had just received possibly the most expansive tour of Rosier Place that anyone outside the family had ever received, and she now knew the defenses almost as well as Aldon and Lina did. She knew exactly where each trap and mine was set, and she knew how to set them off. She had been walked through every secret passage, been shown every hidden shield spell, collapse spell, and protective ward.

Aldon might not live in a castle, not the way that Neal did, but Rosier Place was still a fortress, if only a magical one.

"Come," Aldon said, breaking her reverie. She glanced at him – he wasn't looking at her, instead down at his desk. He didn't look at her often, but she sometimes caught him staring when he thought she wasn't looking. "My research suggests that you'll be able to access the wards and defenses from the primal keystone. I can access them anywhere, but as the—"

He stopped suddenly, clearing his throat awkwardly. "You'll need to access them here, if you need to do it at all. I hope you will not."

Francesca didn't pry into what he hadn't said. She had her guesses, and she wanted none of them confirmed. She took a few more steps forward to stand beside him.

She hadn't forgiven him for the Unity Ball. She hadn't forgotten, either – how could she, when what he had done had had such wide-reaching effects? But maybe it was something she could move past, when other things became more important.

They were at war. Francesca hadn't really appreciated that beforehand, when she stepped off a plane into Britain. It was so hard for her to put together what that _meant_, from the safety of America, when the news she had been exposed to at home showed No-Maj Britain at peace. Even sitting across from Neal and Aldon, who had done their best to explain, hadn't made much impact. For Francesca, Blake & Associates was _here. _All of her collaborators were _here_, and at least two of them would never be dragged away. Her research was _here_, and she wanted the ACD to be real, a pretty pink machine on her own arm, as fast as possible. Her mind had been decided before she had come, and she wasn't going to be swayed, not by Neal, or Aldon, or John, or anyone. This was her future and turning away felt like giving up.

But then the Lower Alleys had burned, and the war became very real. She remembered the smoke and ash, the flames towering higher than any building, and she remembered the bodies. She wasn't even supposed to be there, but Lina had demanded it because she was a Light witch, the only Light witch they had other than Aman. Aldon had argued against taking her with them, but Lina had overruled him, slamming a defensive magic book into his chest. And so she had went.

Maybe she should have packed up and left, after the Lower Alleys attack. It wouldn't even be difficult for her to leave now, and Aldon would probably encourage it. Will and Tina would let her and Bubbles impose on them, and a plane ticket home to America was easy to arrange. Her parents would welcome her home to San Francisco, and Ilvermorny would still accept her transfer papers. But her research was _here_, and Francesca had always had a stubborn streak. It was obstinacy that had gotten her through her first few months at AIM, her obstinacy that had created the first prototype ACD, that had taken her through the Tournament and through everything that followed. Maybe Francesca was stupid when it came to certain things, especially her ACD, but if she was, it wasn't something she could stop.

Something in her balked at the idea of running from Wizarding Britain. Christie was not leaving. Aldon was not leaving. Aman and Albert, British-born citizens both, were staying, and even Jessica, newly arrived from Australia, was unwilling to leave her No-Maj husband, newly appointed to a tenured professorship at the University of Leeds. No one else was leaving, and Francesca wouldn't either.

The Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier was very different from the Aldon Étienne Blake she remembered. Aldon Blake had been someone she looked at like someone around her age, with all the familiarity that implied. He had been friendly and gentle, easy to talk to about runes, magical theory, and anything else that had come to mind once she had gotten to know him. Aside from his accent, he hadn't seemed all that different than John, or Neal, or Archie.

The Lord Rosier, by contrast, felt worlds apart. When he joined them in the library to work on the ACD, she sometimes saw flashes of the Aldon Blake she remembered, but he often had other responsibilities. For the most part, when she saw him, he was formal, serious and polite, fulfilling his duties as the Lord of the manor. He was much more reserved, careful about what he said and stiffly considerate.

Francesca didn't forgive Aldon for the Unity Ball. It was just less important against the backdrop of war, and Aldon wasn't the person she remembered anyway.

She reached out, resting her hand on the primal keystone, and gasped as a wave of information assaulted her. She could feel the wards, now – thirty-seven different spells, woven together, some of which had to have been laid centuries ago and refreshed by each successive Lord. The last fifteen or so felt newer, more barbed and ready to react, and she suspected they had been the ones added by Aldon himself. She could sense the secondary keystones, eleven of them laid across the grounds, and she could trigger nearly all the emergency spells from here.

It was the same feeling she had when she looked at John, a wild influx of information and knowledge rushing into her head. And like when she looked at John, she breathed through it and rode it out. She started sorting the information – unlike looking at John, at least the knowledge didn't change, so she slowly separated the wards from the other protective spells. Having toured Rosier Place extensively beforehand, the manor made an ideal mind palace, so she set up a mental representation and slowly started putting each protective spell where it belonged.

"Are you all right?" Aldon's hand was resting on her lower back, his thumb making a soothing circular motion. She wasn't sure he knew he was doing it, but she thought he would stop if she drew any attention to it.

She didn't mind. His hand was warm, and it was comforting. It didn't have to mean anything.

"It's fine," she murmured, running her hands lightly across the stone. "I think – thirty-seven spells woven into the ward, is that right?"

"For now," Aldon replied, sounding grim. "I still want to weave in a few more. Let me walk you through each of the spells and how to trigger them – if you need to use them, Francesca, I want you to use them. I mean it."

She looked up, studying him for a moment – his molten eyes were firm, serious, and his hand had stilled. They were standing a little closer together than she was used to aside from when they danced together, but she found that she didn't mind. She wondered, briefly, if she should mind.

"Okay," she said, and paid close attention to his detailed explanation of the wards.

Since her argument with Aldon in the Rosier ballroom, Francesca had also paid three visits to Queenscove, testing everyone there for ACD compatibility. Neal had been ecstatic to find that he did fall within the range that they could make prototypes for, as did his brother Graeme and his cousin Fei Long, but they were unfortunately the only ones. Following Aldon's orders, she went next to Grimmauld Place, testing both Sirius and Archie. Both had matched, and while Aldon hadn't asked that Archie be tested or that he be given one of the few, rare ACDs, Francesca thought it should be fine. Even if Archie wasn't supposed to be in any combat, she would want him to have one just in case.

She didn't know anyone else anyway, nor had she really tried to meet anyone. So many people came in and out of Rosier Place, and a few even lived at Rosier Place, but unless they were specifically introduced to her, she never bothered to try to interact with any of them. She had her elegant suite of rooms, and she had Blake & Associates; what more did she need? She had calls with John every night from Geneva, and occasionally John would ask her to pass a particularly sensitive detail onto Aldon and the others for him. John didn't particularly like Aldon anymore, nor was he happy about Francesca's decision to stay in Britain, but there was little he could do about it other than remind her, ad nauseum, that she would be welcome to join him and Gerry, or Will and Tina, in Geneva. Or his family in New York City, or almost anywhere that wasn't Wizarding Britain.

It was a few days later that Aldon walked into the Rosier Place library where she and the others were working across one of the big library tables. Since they used the magic-free room specifically for building new ACDs and working with No-Maj electronics, and the other was too small for comfortable collaboration, they tended to spread into the rest of the library if it was otherwise empty.

"I hate to disturb you all," Aldon said, setting a book and a small bag onto the table. He didn't take a single look at her, but Francesca could see the words on the manual clearly from across the table: _The Floo Regulatory Authority Manual. _"I have good news to report, but also a request to make. We successfully removed our Floo point from the Floo Network last night with none the wiser, as well as forty-six other locations central to our resistance. The … mission's strike team also recovered these from the Floo Regulatory Authority – is there any way that we could recreate a similar network between our safehouses?"

Francesca glanced at the others around the table – Jessica and Aman were shaking their heads, not in denial but only a signal that they didn't know. It was too far out of their specialties. Albert was already reaching for the book, while Christie was reaching into the bag, pulling out pegs and studying them thoughtfully.

"It's not my specialty," Albert said, flipping through the book, sounding very reluctant. "I do have some friends from my AIM days who went on to work for the Floo networks in America, so I could ask them some questions, but I can't promise anything."

"These pegs are alchemical in nature." Christie was turning one of them, with a tag reading _McKinnon Residence_, over and over in her fingers. "That isn't surprising. The ability of the Floo Network to link together an area as large as the British Isles always suggested that alchemical efficiency had to be involved. However, I doubt it is needed in everyday practice – the Floo Regulatory Network is considered to be a part of the Ministry of Magic for employment purposes, and while Dumbledore is one of the greatest alchemists living, Hogwarts doesn't have much of an alchemy program. They simply don't have the in-house expertise for alchemy to be needed for Floo maintenance."

"Could you recreate it?" Aldon turned his bright eyes towards Christie, hopeful. "If you could, it would … simplify our internal travel immensely. The current system, relying on Apparition, is risky, since it requires leaving warded space and not everyone is comfortable Apparating on their own."

"What about Portkeys?" Albert asked, leaning forward thoughtfully as he passed the manual to Christie. "Not individual Portkeys, which can be lost, but a Portkey Hub at each location. My Mastery was in large-scale transportation spells, so it wouldn't be too much trouble to set everything up, and since someone would need to be monitoring the connection at both ends for it to function it would be more secure than the Floo. With forty nodes and constant coverage, you could manage with…" He paused, running the numbers in his head. "Fifty wizards, but fewer if you remove nodes or if you only intend to keep it open for certain time periods."

Aldon tilted his head, frowning. "We don't have fifty wizards to dedicate to managing a large-scale transportation network. I am doubtful that we would even have a single person at each house that could micro-manage it to the extent necessary for effective use. In retrospect, perhaps I should have asked the strike team to destroy the Floo Network entirely – then, if a safe house was lost, they wouldn't expect the Floo to work at all and it wouldn't be considered an access point. Christie, how does it look?"

Christie had found a large diagram showing the Floo Hub – Francesca saw a picture of a stone table, heavily engraved with runes, with hundreds of pegs lying underneath. "I don't know yet. I think with time we could reverse-engineer it, but the materials required for something like this… it wouldn't be easy, and if the Ministry is watching it could be very conspicuous."

"A Portkey Hub would also need materials," Albert added with a grimace. "It's more spellwork than anything else, but I would still need quite a bit of silver wire."

"I – um, for the ACD," Francesca cut in, a little hasty. "We're also out of materials for the ACD. I can, um, put in an order and the No-Maj materials through my dad, have them shipped here. We should organize a, um, post box location."

"That I can help with," Jessica added, putting one hand on the table. "My husband can take the shipments at the University of Leeds – two No-Maj professors collaborating, Stanford to Leeds, isn't going to be too suspicious. I can go and pick it up, no problem."

Aldon frowned, thinking it over. "You can Apparate, I assume? How well known are you in Wizarding Britain?"

"I can Apparate, and not at all." The woman shrugged. "I'm an Aussie, schooled at Oceania. I reckon a few people in the Potions community might have heard my name, but I haven't stepped into the Guild here—I wouldn't expect anyone to recognize me to see me."

"Defensive capabilities?"

Jessica winced. "I did the requirements at Oceania for Defense, but not much aside from that. I focused on Potions otherwise."

Aldon sighed, shaking his head. "That isn't ideal, but nothing seems to be. Stick to Muggle public transit as much as possible, and we will have to hope that your anonymity is enough. Francesca, would you and Albert put together a list of materials you both need? Christie and I will work on the alchemical materials. If Lord Potter's strike is successful, we don't have to worry about it, but I would rather we plan for the worst. It is … a little outside your usual role, and I appreciate that this is a significant favour, but in the current circumstances…"

"It's fine, Aldon," Christie said, putting the manual down. "We understand. It'll take awhile to get the materials anyway, so we can continue with ACD research in the meantime. Francesca will make the list of materials for the ACD, Albert for the Portkey Hubs, and I'll take a look at the Floo Network setup in my spare time."

"Thank you." A weak smile flitted across Aldon's face, and Francesca couldn't help feeling something for him. This was Aldon. As different as the Lord Rosier was from the Aldon she thought she knew, that only made the flashes of the Aldon she recognized more prominent. He caught her staring and tilted his head in question.

She blushed and looked away.

XXX

Neal tilted the ACD on his forearm, admiring the way that the light shone off the plastic cover, tinted blue. He had less time to train with it than he would like, but the few times he had taken it out had been _fun_. Graeme and Fei were in the lists in a practice duel, trying it out, and judging from the shit-eating grin on Fei's face, it was Christmas.

"Ha!" Fei yelled, and there was a swipe of her fan, just under Graeme's guard, and Graeme fell back. It was only a training match, so it wouldn't be anything too bad, just a warning. "And now you're dead."

"Thanks for that, Fei," Graeme replied dryly, picking himself up. "As if I didn't know."

"The pretty thing on your arm only helps you if you use it." Fei nodded to the ACD that was still flashing on Graeme's arm. "You should have fired it; the shield is almost instantaneous. It's _amazing_."

"You try balancing about four different casting methods, Fei," Graeme grumbled. "Sword, wand, runes, and now an ACD? It's too much."

His mother, watching on the sidelines, tsked. "Drop the wand entirely, Yuanrong. Wand magic is more versatile, but you need versatility less than speed on the battlefield. Your sword magic is stronger than your wand magic—leave your wand behind when we go. Take ten minutes, and then you come back, without your wand."

"Yes, Mama." Graeme sighed, turning from the field and slumping on the bench beside Neal. "Shit."

"You're an active-duty Auror." Neal kept his voice down, lest his mother hear, patting Graeme on the back. "You have more experience than any of us."

"_C'est pas le même chose,_" Graeme replied, equally quiet. "I'm trained to _hold back_, Neal – as an Auror, or even in the Tournament, we were trained to hold back, because we never wanted to really hurt anyone."

"Yuanren! It's your turn." His mother was calling him, and Neal winced.

"You survived the Ministry Unity Ball attack, same as I did," Neal reminded Graeme quickly as he stood up. "You'll make it through this, too. I'm counting on it."

"Good luck," Graeme called after him, as Neal saw Dom walking in on the other side. "Mama's on a tear."

Graeme was right, and Neal fought his way through six more fights, including two three-on-one fights, before they were let go for the day. With the upcoming strike on Malfoy Manor, his mother had instituted a formal training regimen for all of them, regardless of whether they would see active combat or not. The Queenscove contingent was on the left flank, under the formal command of Lina Avery. Neal would be there, and Graeme, Fei, Kel and his mother. Dom, a weaker fighter than the rest of them, would be left to hold the fort at Queenscove with Yuki. Neal was glad they would stay behind, but he could feel the tension in the air as well as anyone else.

Sirius was in the main group, leading beside James Potter, whom Neal hadn't come to know every well but had no reason to doubt. His mother had gone to most of the meetings for Queenscove instead of him – if Neal could avoid politics forever, he would be perfectly happy about it. Two weeks of formal treaty negotiations were enough for a lifetime, and his mother actually seemed to enjoy the meetings, so he left her to it and instead enforced her training regimen at home.

He even roped in Aldon, at least every other day. Aldon sorely needed the practice, and he never would unless Neal physically went over to Rosier Place to drag him back to Queenscove for it – he would always find something else to do. Neal had given him at least two lectures on the importance of training already, and while Aldon always nodded and agreed, he still never found his way to Queenscove on his own. Neal wasn't sure if Aldon was purposely being an idiot about training, or if it genuinely slipped his mind. He could only be thankful that Aldon would _not_ be involved in the strike – he just didn't have the skill, and Lina wouldn't hear of it.

The precise date of the strike wasn't disclosed – as his mother put it, they were keeping the time frame flexible just in case Voldemort had managed to get any spies in their organization. Neal agreed with the decision, but the tension grew worse, day by day. He started waking up earlier, the nerves getting to him, training later. It wasn't good for him, and the meditative breathing that Yuki taught him only went so far. He ate normally, trained normally, but his stomach seemed full of flutters every time he thought about it.

He wasn't the only one. His mother was driving them harder as the days wore on, and they all took it seriously. Everyone they had going was strong, but battles were fickle things. They were each showing the effects – he and Fei joked more, laughed more, became more flippant and less serious, while his mother, Kel, and Graeme doubled down, spending longer in the lists as each day passed. It was a very different thing, going on the offensive, compared to going somewhere and waiting for an attack.

Lord Potter was throwing almost the entirety of their forces behind this strike. Aside from a few people here and there left to defend their strongholds, just as Dom and Yuki were being left at Queenscove, everyone would be involved. Taking Malfoy Manor would be a huge victory – it would be the legitimate government regaining control over the country, revealing the coup, before Voldemort could secure his hold on the Ministry. Losing, however, would be a disaster – it would only add fuel to Voldemort's comments, and Lord Potter knew it.

There was nothing special about the day of the strike. It was mid-July, when his mother stood in the centre of the circle of combatants in the lists.

"Today," she said, short and succinct, her expression grim. "So, no training. Save your energy and do what you must – we move out at sunset. Dismissed."

Neal exchanged a look with the crowd of people around him: Mama, Dom, Graeme, Kel, Fei and Yuki. Dom had turned away, shaking his shoulders out, and Neal could almost feel the nerves his cousin was trying to throw off. Kel was expressionless, but her hazel eyes rested on him, while Yuki had gone pale. Graeme's expression turned grim, and Neal would bet that, no matter what Mama had said, Graeme would be in the lists all day, keeping himself limber. He looked towards Yuki.

If he had only today, he knew what he wanted to do with it.

"Let's walk somewhere," he suggested, holding his hand out towards her. "On the grounds, but… somewhere."

Yuki smiled weakly, taking his hand and following him outside.

Queenscove was beautiful. Over the last year, Neal had had many feelings towards his castle: anger and frustration, but also a growing appreciation and respect. His castle was built to last – it had stood for more than a millennium and a half, it had existed through almost a century abandoned, and it was still here. Neal had memories here now, not just with new friends like Aldon and Alex, but with his family. Will had already asked to borrow the castle for his wedding, which wouldn't happen for a few years now that the war had started, and his parents, Graeme, and Jessa loved their ancestral home.

Yuki loved Queenscove, and his castle seemed to love her in return. There were people that his castle clearly liked more than others. Neal, Yuki, Francesca, and his parents seemed to have the castle's favour, while Kel, Dom, Fei and Graeme seemed to run into endless problems. The castle was capricious, moving things around at will, and there had been more than one embarrassing incident already. He couldn't help but smile at the memories, though – all the best stories made it back to him, mostly in the form of complaints.

The sea, forming the backdrop for his castle, crashed into the cliffs lying underneath Queenscove. If he concentrated, he could always hear the sea, rushing in and out even within the comfort of Queenscove. Outside, on the grounds, he could smell the brine in the air, he could feel the salt spray as they walked along the cliff's edge.

This close to Scotland, the grounds were rocky. They weren't so far away from the Highlands, at Queenscove, and the terrain showed it. There was very little tree cover across his grounds, only rocks and heather. The open grounds were good for defense, Neal knew – there was next to no tree cover for an enemy to hide.

Graeme and his mother had mined the grounds for him already, so they couldn't go far. Instead, Neal helped Yuki down to the small beach not too far away from the main castle. The slope was steep, rocky, and the beach was stony, uncomfortable, but they could pull their shoes off and let the icy waters of the Atlantic soak their feet.

Yuki gasped, stepping into the water, pulling her skirt up to keep the cloth from dragging in the water. Neal caught her arm, but she flashed him a smile. "It's cold!"

"I don't think the sea ever warms," Neal replied, sheepish. "I should have brought some towels, or something. I just—wasn't sure where else to go."

"No." Yuki sighed, knotting her skirt carefully on one side and reaching out for him. Neal needed no encouragement to step forward, wrapping her in his arms. Yuki wasn't small, as Japanese women went – Kel had said once that, by Japanese standards, Yuki was considered to be on the heavy side. She was plump, peppery, and had a certain tendency to speak her mind that didn't fly well in conservative Japanese pureblood circles.

Neal liked her exactly the way she was. From the first time he had met her, they had connected – first through Kel, then on topics of their own. A dozen long letters winging their way between, first, AIM and Mahoutokoro, then another two dozen or so between Queenscove and Mahoutokoro, had deepened their relationship, clumsy English and worse Japanese notwithstanding. A measly week or so in Geneva, imposing on his brother and Tina, then two weeks of winter holidays at Queenscove, and Neal dared to think that he could see a future with her.

He was too young to make such final decisions, Graeme would tell him, but Will had known what he wanted from when he was fifteen years old. Neal had no idea where he fell on that spectrum, but he didn't think he needed to know. All he needed was today, and hopefully tomorrow, and the day after.

She was a full head shorter than him, but that didn't matter. He rested his lips on her dark hair, silent.

"You will survive tonight," Yuki murmured to him. "You and everyone with you. Domitan and I will be waiting."

"Mm." Neal pulled away, lifting Yuki's chin with one hand and meeting her lips in a soft kiss. "I will."

XXX

Lina paced the ground in front of her command. It was just past sunset – not the traditional time for an attack, but in some ways that made it better. The traditional time for an attack was at dawn, when the night watch had grown tired and everyone else was still groggy, but over centuries people had come to expect it. Sunset, however, was unexpected and it had the benefit of being the time when most people began to feel a little sleepy, just enough to slow reaction time by a few crucial tenths of a second.

Humans had risen and slept with the sun for millennia. For Muggles, they hadn't had the technology for widespread lights at night until the last century, and for mages, light spells had needed centuries of refinement to be able to sustain without thought or a magical power drain. The sun falling below the horizon was a signal, wired by hundreds of thousands of years, that it was time to find somewhere warm, somewhere safe, and sleep. Evolution was a difficult pattern to break.

They were in a convenient copse of trees, about thirty feet away from the outer limits of the Malfoy grounds. Lina couldn't help but stare out towards Malfoy Manor, a miniscule sculpture in the distance. It had only been six weeks, maybe seven, since she was here last, but her memory was still fresh.

Evan had died here.

Evan had been a coward, but he had been her friend. He had covered for her, as much as she needed, always giving her reasonable-sounding excuses to be out of the country running the business she loved. He had given her a cover of respectability in Britain, enough that her family hadn't disowned her, and Rosier Place had become a comfortable place to call home. She had loved him, and in time he and his family had become hers.

There was a fire in her chest, something that burned in her to seek revenge. She didn't know for certain who had cast the spell that had felled him; there was a good chance that she had, indeed, already killed them in the first attack. They had congregated on Evan instead of her, and she had taken the first two of them by surprise.

It wasn't enough. Evan might have been a coward, and they might have known that he was likely to die in the conflict, and he might have given his life willingly, but she would still kill as many of them as she could to get something that felt like satisfaction for his death.

She turned away from the Manor to focus on her small command. Only a dozen or so had opted to follow her, and that was perfectly fine by her. She wasn't the Lord Potter, former Head Auror, and she wasn't Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, famed former Auror and Defense Master, known from running the top Duelling school in Britain. Unlike the other two, Lina didn't even have the endorsement of the Lord Dumbledore, who could not be on the battlefield tonight because, on the off chance that things went badly, they needed him to have the plausible deniability to hold onto Hogwarts School.

Within the bounds of Wizarding Britain, Lina Avery, Stormwing, had only been the Lady Eveline Rosier, noble wife and mother, for the last two decades. Even her Defense Mastery was something that many people had long since forgotten, and she had bullied her way into a command largely by simply refusing to accept that she should back down. It had helped, she supposed, that Moody, laughing the entire time, backed her in the face of Lord Potter's skepticism.

Lina Avery was a Stormwing, and war was what she had been trained to plan. Few people had heard of Stormwings, and even fewer in notoriously isolated Wizarding Britain. The Stormwing path was not one that was advertised, and that was for the better – half of people who attempted it dropped out before Service Year, and a third of those remaining died on Service.

No one needed Stormwing training. Stormwing training was for the desperate: those desperately running away from something, or desperately running towards something.

She had the Queenscoves with her, which wasn't surprising. They had seen each other in action before, and they were traditional heirloom-casters. Almost a third of all Stormwings were Chinese heirloom-casters, and Wizarding Chinese Army was the largest employer for Stormwings in the world. Kingsley Shacklebolt was with her, too – he had a Defense Mastery and had trained in Africa, so she suspected he knew of Stormwings generally if not her specifically. Four Shafiq cousins were behind her, two of them Aurors, and the Shafiqs had a close relationship with the Shacklebolts. Raoul Goldenlake and two of his closest allies were behind her too, which Lina guessed was likely because of their new alliance with the Queenscoves. Marcus Flint was a surprise, the only outlier, but he stood slightly apart from the others, an expression of graven fury on his face. Lina had no idea what had made Flint change sides, joining them when so many of the other SOW Party families were either standing aloof or behind Voldemort, but he was good with a wand and she didn't care.

A little over a dozen, but Lina dared to hope she had probably gotten the some of the best. Lord Potter was taking the lead in the main guard, mainly Aurors and former Ministry employees, while Moody held right flank with most of the Light-sided families. As the smallest group, Lina's command was expected to be light, mobile, and they would be assaulting from behind. An extra surprise for Voldemort's group, they hoped.

"Tonight," she said, eyeing her group of fighters. "We take back Wizarding Britain. Who we are, what comes next – we can decide that when a terrorist isn't in control of the country. If people surrender, put them under a Full Body Bind and move on, and if they don't, aim to kill. Don't hesitate. I want us to win, and I want all of you to survive. Got it?"

No one answered, but they all looked grim, serious. Lina eyed the Queenscoves – their group had left their wands behind entirely and would be relying on their traditional magic and some of the AIM girl's new devices to carry them through. "Mei Ling, I want your group in the forefront. I expect Voldemort has mined the grounds, so I want you to trigger the traps as soon as possible, from as great of a distance as possible."

"An earthquake spell should trigger many of them," the woman said, stepping forward with her fan in hand. "Keladry is an earth mage. My sons, my niece and I can then blast fire and wind through the space, clearing a path forward."

"Good enough," Lina replied with a sharp nod. Elemental magic had a certain raw quality to which nations long used to wand magic were no longer accustomed, and that could prove to be the additional edge they needed. "Watch for my signal, and we go."

She turned back around, waving her hand in a rune to identify any magic. The Malfoy wards, thirty feet away from them, flashed blue in the air. The Lord Potter had two Curse-breakers in his group who were working on unravelling them. From what she remembered in Stormwing training, the Curse-breakers would, if successful, disable the monitoring and alarm spells with none the wiser. She waited two minutes before flashing the symbol again.

The wards were shifting, varying as their allies pulled them apart. Four minutes, then six. Lina waited, feeling a cold calm settle over her. It had always been like that – she would be in frenzy of planning for weeks before, fuelled by worry, anger, and anxiety, but the moment right before action were filled with nothing but calm. She had done what she could, and what would happen now, would happen. It was time to meet the enemy, and she was ready.

Sixteen minutes later, her identification spell identified nothing. She held up one finger behind her, counting down a further fifteen minutes – the idea was for Lord Potter's main guard and Moody and Lord Dumbledore's group to draw out any defenders, then for Lina's crew to hit them from behind.

Eight minutes. Then six, then five. Then four, then three, and one.

She slammed her hand downwards, a motion to move, and the girl called Keladry, just seventeen with a Japanese naginata in her hands, dropped her earthquake spell. The ground under them rumbled, trembled, and then the spell tore forwards towards Malfoy Manor.

There was another snap, and the grounds in front of them exploded. Shields flashed, Lina's shield just one of many, but they were far enough away that the traps reached, grabbed at nothing, and collapsed. Lina squinted, trying to identify the spells at work – there was a mass blinding spell of some kind, another spell that would bind their magic for defenders to pick them off, a chasm that Lina would bet was marked with sharp spires at the bottom to spell their deaths. A small shake of her head at some of the spells, and she made a second motion of her hand. Fire roared, blasting forwards into open ground.

Halfway across the grounds, the flames reacted. Something was there, something triggered first by the earth magic, but the air glowed orange, then brighter.

"Shields!" Lina barked, but it was hardly necessary because they were already snapping up again around her. The fire expanded, like a grand balloon. It had been many years since she had seen this spell, but she still recognized it. "Poison gas, released by the earthquake!"

"Do we need Bubble-Head Charms?" Shacklebolt yelled, a note of concern in this voice, watching as the fire spiralled upwards, even larger.

"No, the fire will burn it in the air, but _hold those shields!_"

The orange fire coalesced, a hundred metres ahead of them, the colours shifting uneasily. Lina watched it, waiting – a minute, she guessed, hearing the people behind her moving closer together. That was fine.

It exploded, and she held fast and leaned into her shield spell as the concussive wave tore across the grounds. The trees around her shook, leaves and twigs rattling down, and there was a huge crack as several of the younger, smaller ones crashed. A chance glance behind her – half of her command were crouching against the ground, not expecting the power of the blast, but they were all there.

The ground in front of them was scorched, with smoke rising from small patches still smouldering in front of them. The once-manicured lawns were burnt black, still aflame, but Malfoy Manor was untouched. Guarded by further shielding, Lina guessed, but from the effect on the grounds, at least she could be reasonably certain that they had cleared any traps. There weren't as many as she had expected.

"We go," she said, "and let us seek the kraken."

Her gun was heavy in her left hand, her wand stiff in her right, as she strode forward, spells at the ready. They didn't run – running was panic, running would make them miss things, running was dangerous. Instead, they walked across the grounds, looking for anything and everything unusual.

The ground was hot under their feet, and the air smelled of fire and ash. Lina could feel a breeze blowing from behind her, courtesy of the Lord Queenscove. There was another scent, the electric tang of magic, and Lina listened closely. Above the sound of the wind, the crackle of the remaining flames, she heard spellfire.

She scanned the grounds. They could hit the Malfoy Manor from behind, start clearing the building, but her group was too small. Only a dozen, and Malfoy Manor had so many holes for the enemy to hide and take them by surprise. She had to meet with at least one of the two other groups to make a run at the manor, so she gestured for someone behind her to cloak them magically.

She felt a cold, wet crack against the back of her neck, a Disillusionment Charm, and she turned the corner around Malfoy Manor.

It was not good. One look over the battleground, and it was not good. Lord Potter's main guard was much smaller than it should have been, and they were already breaking. Voldemort was out on the field, his magic distinctive against her sharply tuned senses. There was an acidic scent in the air, possibly an earlier poison gas spell, and the ground was being ripped around them. Moody was already in the thick of the fray, trading spells with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Voldemort's group was well organized, small groups revolving around one or two leads each. Command was already delegated, she realized, and his group was organized into a six or so units that were highly mobile and quick to react. Moody's group was biting into one of the units, one which was most likely led by Bellatrix Lestrange, but the others were causing serious trouble with Lord Potter's group. Pansy Parkinson, in particular, was laying waste – no one in Lord Potter's contingent seemed willing to hurt her, and her group was a hot knife cutting through butter.

"Shit," she muttered. She recognized this formation. It was light, it was mobile, it was _smart_ – Voldemort had either studied strategy, or he had someone trained to do it on his side. Another Stormwing. "Shit, shit, _shit! _We move in, everyone, and let's try to pull this out of the fire!"

Those were the last words she spoke for some time, as she slammed into Voldemort's troops from behind. She was too far away from Parkinson's group – if she was closer to them, she would have aimed to take Parkinson out as fast as possible, because clearly no one else was willing to do it. It wasn't working, and soon she was preoccupied – another one of the groups spotted them and split off to engage.

She recognized a few faces, and she didn't care. She shot the Lord Selwyn in the shoulder, sending him reeling back, and Blinded him while she was at it. Active combat was not the place to throw around Killing Curses, which simply required too much concentration and magic. She recognized Travers, who had let Voldemort's troops into Malfoy Manor, and she took pleasure in blasting him backwards. Edmund Rookwood, whom she recognized as Aldon's friend, dodged her and engaged with one of her fighters behind him; she let him. She expected that one of the Queenscoves could handle him.

Forward. That was all she could think about, carving a path forward to meet Lord Potter's troops. She could see them, but the space between them was chaos. She could break forward herself, but she couldn't leave her unit. They were safest holding together, moving as a unit, and one look behind her showed that they were struggling. Another one of Voldemort's units had broken off to engage them.

She hit someone fighting Mei Ling Song with a Severing Charm from behind. Blood sprayed, and she didn't bother to see who it was as Mei Ling set them on fire. Her sons, the Queenscoves, were using their swords almost as much as their magic, a clear advantage – it seemed like their opponents treated their weapons as a wand replacement, forgetting that swords were also wonderful implements of death without magic. Both Queenscoves had blood on their blades, and there was no sign of Edmund Rookwood.

Shacklebolt was engaged with a young man that Lina didn't recognize, one with the sharp nose and chin that spoke to pureblood noble heritage. The fact that she didn't recognize him told her that he was off-noble, someone likely related to a noble family but not noble themselves. Shaheen Shafiq and his brother, Ahmed Shafiq, were both fighting Corban Yaxley – their cousins, Ali and Nasir, were duelling two others that Lina didn't know. Marcus Flint was still upright, taking the time without an active opponent to send a non-verbal Blasting spell at the centre of a knot of the enemy. Raoul Goldenlake was doing better than Lina could have expected, for someone with no Auror training and little other experience, moving on after Stunning Isaac Hopkirk to help one of his cousins, who was struggling with another person Lina didn't recognize. She took the opportunity to hit that fighter with a Disarming Curse and a Severing Curse, and he went down and stayed down.

It was easier for her and the Queenscoves than it was for the rest. The Queenscoves were newcomers, and Lina had spent much of the last forty years outside the country. For the rest, they would recognize more people than she did, and they hesitated. Even if she told them not to hesitate, they hesitated too much.

"We have to get to Lord Potter," she yelled, and she saw Mei Ling nod. A wave of her fan released a plume of flame, but their enemy shielded, and the fire skewed off, harmless, into the sky. Winds fluttered around them, chilly, but with the heat it was almost comforting.

Try as they might, Lina couldn't get her group closer. The battle was an ever-shifting morass, moving in strange shapes, and Voldemort's units were incredibly successful at keeping her small group separate from the main flank. She heard a loud crack, and the ground vibrated beneath them, hard.

It wasn't one of her spells, and one look behind her told her that it wasn't their earth mage's either. Keladry Mindelan, the Lord Queenscove's friend, had the tip of her naginata in the dirt, and she was red-faced in concentration, sweating. The Queenscoves had gathered around her, knocking off any resistance.

"He's trying to tear the earth apart!" Keladry gasped, her lips turning white. "I can't hold it. The chasm he wants to open is under Lord Potter's main guard – we need to retreat, and now!"

Lina turned around, scanning the battleground. It was messy, but the girl was right. A brief look showed that they were down too many fighters, and her core was half-spent. They just didn't have the numbers, and a chasm under Lord Potter's main group would be a disaster. These observations took only milliseconds, and her wand up, firing bright blue sparks into the air – the signal to retreat.

She did it three times, twice towards the main guard, and once in the direction of Moody's group. People starting Disapparating, the cracks echoing across the field, and she made sure that the other commanders were taking up the signal. They would have to regroup, determine what went wrong, but they were not going to be pulling a win out of this. Now was about pulling a loss out of a complete rout.

"How long can you hold?" She yelled, twisting her wand in a Whip Curse on the closest opponent. "Maximum?"

A moment of silence, and the ground shook ever harder. A glance behind her, and the girl now had the older Queenscove ballasting her and funnelling her power. "Two minutes!"

"Be ready to Disapparate when you drop it, then!"

They felt like the two longest minutes of the evening. As the main guard received the signal and Disapparated, there were fewer people to distract Voldemort's units from her small group, and they promptly turned their attention to her. She shot her last three bullets into a group that was now charging towards them, two out of the three missing as the ground shook. The handgun went back into her holster, her wand went into her cleavage, and she reached back and drew her ritual blade.

She didn't have a spell for what she wanted, but that didn't matter. She could throw most of her remaining core into it, and the blade was cold against her arm. Blood spilled, and she focused – she wanted cold, and wind, and rain, to slow them down and obscure their vision. A long moment, as her blood sank into the ground, and she reeled and heard thunder. Most of what remained of her core was gone, but there was thunder, and there was a cold drop of rain on her head. And then there were more droplets, fat droplets, as the skies opened and dumped a torrent of rain on them.

It slowed them. It slowed them, and that was all she needed to buy a few more, crucial seconds, and she felt the moment that Keladry dropped her resistance. The ground underneath her shifted, something breaking only feet away from her, but she turned on the spot, thinking of Rosier Place, and Disapparated.

XXX

Archie paced the living room at Potter Place, waiting. Hermione was there, curled up in an armchair in the corner with a book in her hands, but she wasn't reading it. Instead, her eyes had glazed over, and her hand rested limp in the fold of the book.

Addy was running around behind him, Aunt Lily keeping an eye on her. The toddler was quiet, staring in fascination at both him and Hermione, but too shy to approach. She didn't remember him – a year apart, on top of his schooling at AIM, meant he hadn't seen her enough for her to have more than glimmers of a memory of him. Now that he thought of it, her memories were probably of his old body, the one half merged with Harry's, not his true form.

If he turned to look at her, she would run and hide behind Aunt Lily, so he didn't. Aunt Lily was silent, stiff in the loveseat, the mug of tea Archie had brewed for her earlier sitting untouched.

Harry was home too, but she was in the basement, in her Potions Lab. Hermione had frowned when Harry had gotten up, saying she was going to go brew, but Archie had just shot her a look, shaking his head in a silent gesture to leave it alone. Harry had never done well with her hands idle, and if brewing made her feel better, then what could Archie say about it? The Healing Potions that were most likely to come out of it would no doubt be useful.

The Potter living room felt too small. Dad was out there, with Uncle James and Uncle Remus. Dad said he would know if anything happened to him, because the Grimmauld Place wards would fall to him, but he had no idea what that felt like. Dad said he would know it if it happened, that it was unmistakeable, but Archie couldn't help second-guessing himself. What if he didn't feel it? What if it happened and he just didn't know?

"Stop pacing, Archie," Hermione snapped, slamming her book shut. "You're making me dizzy. Sit down."

Archie tried smiling at her, but it felt wooden. "You're in the only spot in the room I want to sit, 'Mione."

"I can move."

"But that would ruin the whole reason why I wanted to sit there."

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and shifted over, letting Archie wedge himself into the armchair beside her. They didn't fit in the chair, not really, but with some wiggling Archie wormed himself half-underneath her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He buried his face in her curls, trying to breathe in calm.

She was comforting. She didn't have to say anything, or do anything, but she was a comfort just being there. Her breathing was slow and even, though her shoulders were tense. She repositioned her book, letting Archie read over her shoulder if he wanted. It was a guide to curses and counter-curses – neither of them had taken the Spell Damage specialty at school, but they were Healers-in-Training, and they were at war. He tried to focus on the page she had open, something about Transfiguration curses, but he couldn't concentrate.

Time passed. Archie didn't know how much time had passed, but the ticking of the clock became almost a heartbeat. One, and two. Tick, and tock. Hermione turned the pages, one every few minutes, which told Archie more than anything else that she wasn't reading it. When Hermione put her mind to it, she could make it through a book that size in an afternoon, learning all the spells inside at the same time. She was holding the book as a matter of comfort, and little else.

It was dark, getting towards the true darkness of night rather than twilight. Addy had long since fallen asleep, when Aunt Lily moved, her beautiful face turning towards the door.

"James is back," she murmured, and her soft words were loud in the silence. "Sirius and Remus, too."

Archie sucked in a deep, calming breath. Hermione stood up, letting him stand, and caught his arm when he staggered. His legs were tingling, weak from being still for so long, and he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to get rid of the feeling.

There was no shouting, no loud whoops or excited celebration, but Archie dared, at first, to think that they were just being quiet. Addy was still a baby, after all, and it was nighttime, and maybe they just didn't want to wake her.

But the door opened, and Dad and Uncle James carried Uncle Remus over the threshold. Uncle Remus was pale, bloodless, barely breathing, and Archie was there immediately, his wand flying in a diagnostic charm.

"It's mostly blood loss, Arch," Dad said, raising his wand to Summon a Blood Replenishing Potion. "He'll be fine, in time. He was caught in a shred spell – Mulciber tried to flay him alive, but it didn't take very well."

Archie nodded, seeing the blood markings where skin had come off, huge patches that needed immediate attention. Hermione had caught the Blood Replenisher, and Archie didn't need her to explain before she started spelling it into his stomach. He quickly undid Uncle Remus' shirt, hissing in empathy as the fabric stuck to dried blood. Large chunks of skin came off, revealing bare muscle and sinew.

"So?" he heard Aunt Lily ask, her voice trembling. "Did you…?"

"Lost." Uncle James' voice was gravelly, rough. "We were… hit harder by the resistance than we thought we would be. Avery, or the former Lady Rosier, called the retreat, but we had lost before then. I have to go walk the grounds – strengthen our wards."

"I'll come with you," Aunt Lily replied. "Sirius—"

"I need to go shore up Grimmauld Place. I don't know how much more I can do, but my brother—"

"We'll watch Addy," Hermione said, looking up, the vial of Blood Replenisher empty. "Go."

There was a moment of silence, but someone had to have nodded or made some other signal, because the front door open and shut and he and Hermione were left with Uncle Remus.

Archie focused on Healing. It took much longer than it should, because magic didn't stick well to Uncle Remus. The werewolf transformations that had kept the curse from taking strongly in the first place fought Healing spells just as well. He had a small supply of No-Maj gauze and disinfectant, which he used with no reservation. After a few hours, Harry came up, took one look and disappeared to find an array of Potions.

"The Potions will help better than the spells," she said, spelling them into his stomach while Hermione went to disinfect a spare bedroom. There was no way Uncle Remus could go home tonight. "They'll act like slow-release spells, so even if they're not as strong, it's like they're being continually cast – it'll hold."

"Thanks." Archie sighed, heading to the sink to wash his hands. No-Maj methods got messy, and he was careful to disinfect his hands.

"I think you and Hermione should stay the night, Arch." Archie glanced over – Harry looked exhausted, but worried. "It's late. Sirius won't mind, and with your uncle Regulus on their side, it's probably safer here."

Archie smiled weakly. He wanted to go home, check on his Dad, but he was tired. His core was low – too many failed spells not sticking to Uncle Remus. Harry spoke sense. "I have to let Dad know. I can't – I'd rather go home, but…"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, understanding without Archie needing to explain. "You and Hermione can take another room – I think we should have one ready, and if not, I'll get one ready. One room, two?"

"One room is fine." Archie laughed. "I mean – I _think_ one room is fine, it's up to Hermione, but after tonight I'd – I'd prefer it, even if Uncle James might not like it. Though, we aren't…" He coughed, embarrassed.

Harry laughed a little, a creaky sound. "I don't care if you are or aren't, Arch. I'll check with her. I think my dad has more to worry about right now than whether you're sleeping with your girlfriend, but if he says anything, I promise, I'll say or do something even worse to distract him. Deal?"

"Deal."

His night, even if it was curled up with Hermione at his side, was restless. He knew the morning would be bad, and spent what felt like hours trying to imagine the worst case scenarios. It would be all over the _Daily Prophet_, of course. They'd probably be blamed for the attack, made out to look like criminals. There might be criminal charges. He would have to write to Percy, as soon as he could. He would have to prepare a response for _Bridge_. His own alliance would be breaking, again, and he would have to arrange for more meetings to calm people down. How did he calm people down if he didn't even know what to do next?

He couldn't do anything about it at three in the morning, so he told himself it would be better if he slept, came at it with a fresh mind in the morning.

He wished that worked, and even snuggling closer to Hermione only helped a little.

It was seven in the morning when he treaded downstairs, still tired despite having caught _some_ hours of sleep. He wasn't alone – Dad and Uncle James were already there, hovering over a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, already spread across the kitchen table. He steeled himself and joined them. "How bad is it?"

"About as bad as you'd expect." Despite his casual words, Dad sounded disgusted. "We're the rebellion, now. Rule of law, and all that."

Archie took a deep breath, and leaned over the newspaper to read for himself.

**_VICTORY BY MIDNIGHT_**

_Voldemort, Deputy-In-Charge of the Ministry of Magic, reported this morning a resounding victory against a rebel attack last night._

_Close to seven in the evening, rebel forces assaulted Malfoy Manor. The rebels appeared to be led primarily by former nobility, particularly the former Lord James Potter and the former Lady Eveline Rosier. A preliminary investigation indicates that the attack was supported by a number of former Ministry officials, particularly those associated with the former nobility, as well as foreigners, Bridge supporters, terrorist organizations, Muggleborns and halfbloods both. _

_The Ministry of Magic sustained serious losses, with an estimated twenty dead, but was successful in repelling the attack. The number of enemy dead is not yet confirmed but is expected to be nearly twice as many. For a complete list of the confirmed dead, see page 2._

_Citizens of Britain are encouraged to take caution. Anyone with information regarding the perpetrators of this horrific crime are requested to contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as soon as possible. Further interim measures to ensure public safety are expected in the coming days._

Archie gritted his teeth, preparing himself and flipping to page two, but the list of the dead only included Voldemort's followers. He hadn't gotten around to asking about their own dead last night, with Uncle Remus being so injured, but of course they had to have taken losses of their own.

"We're meeting with Avery, Moody, and Dumbledore at noon," Uncle James said. There were dark circles under his eyes, signs of a sleepless night. He didn't say anything as Hermione trailed into the kitchen, her hair a bird's nest, and Archie grimly passed her the paper. "Avery will probably bring Rosier with her."

"What happened?" Archie asked, his forehead creasing. They had planned _so much_ for this attack – it had seemed like every eventuality was explored, every possible defense canvassed. There was always an element of risk, and Archie had known that, but from everything he knew, he thought they had been well prepared. Dad, Uncle James, they wouldn't have agreed to go ahead with the plan without being prepared.

Uncle James shook his head. "I've been spending all night thinking about it, and I'm still not completely sure. We need to work it out, and a path forward. You should…" He hesitated, then sighed. "You should stay for the discussion, Archie. I don't like to include you – you shouldn't be worrying about this – but our tactics will need to change. We'll need to coordinate with _Bridge_ on messaging."

"Yeah, of course." Archie nodded, heading for the coffeepot on the counter. "I'll stay."

He was setting out sandwiches and tea when Aldon, Lina and Moody arrived. Harry had disappeared, saying that she was going to check on Leo and the refugees and drop off more potions, and Hermione had gone with her. With the loss, it was important that they get the refugees out sooner rather than later, and Harry said she could work with them, engineer some trust so that they would agree to go. Aunt Lily was in her workroom, working on the Portkeys – with luck, Hermione was hoping that they would get the refugees out as early as next week.

"No Dumbledore, today, Potter," Moody said, taking a seat at the wooden table and reaching for a sandwich. "He's meeting with the Light faction who have lost people, but I can speak for the both of us. He'll catch up later."

"Fine." Uncle James paused, his eyes moving to Aldon. "I suppose I have you to thank, Rosier, for having the foresight to remove us from the Floo Network."

Archie tensed, half-expecting Aldon say something mocking, but for once Aldon seemed to ignore the opportunity. "Call it for what it is, Potter—not foresight, just paranoia. And the thanks belong to your daughter, so I thank you for authorizing the mission. Losses?"

"Too many. I spent some time last night making a list—I can't guarantee that it's complete, but even so…" Uncle James reached into his robes, pulling out a scroll of parchment and spreading it on the table. Archie glanced at it – there had to be more than two dozen names.

"I lost two: Nasir Shafiq and one of Goldenlake's allies, Ulysses Flynn." Lina's mouth was a hard line.

"Four more in my group: Gideon Prewett, William Naxen, Anthony Veldine and Amanda Minch," Moody grunted. "Good people, all."

"What happened?" Archie couldn't help but ask, for the second time that day, setting out a coffeepot in case some of them preferred coffee.

"A shitshow, that's what happened." Lina reached for the coffeepot. "An absolute shitshow. Lord Potter, what happened to the main guard? When I joined, you were already down fighters."

Uncle James shook his head, his expression dark. "In retrospect, one of our Curse-breakers must have tripped an alarm spell in the wards. They were ready for us, but we didn't know. Our trap identification spells found three traps, fewer than I had expected, but I had no reason to think that we were missing any. We were halfway across the grounds when another trap spell triggered – three explosions, from under our feet. Then they were on us, an ambush on _our _ambush."

"Manually triggered," Lina guessed. "One of the ways around a trap identification spell. Stormwing trick."

"Did you recognize one?" Moody scowled. "The formation was distinctive. No one I recognized, but I don't keep track of our compatriots."

"No, but I don't know everyone, and it seems likely. I can reach out to my contacts. The formations are too close to what we are taught in training. Small units, light and mobile, with prominent delegated decision-making. Move fast, react faster, hit hard."

"The past information I received from within Voldemort's group would be consistent with that analysis," Aldon added, sounding very clinical. "Voldemort has a demonstrated controlling streak – although the coup had two commands, that was clearly a necessity considering they needed to hold down the Ministry while assaulting Malfoy Manor. It would not be natural to him to reorganize his followers into more than six units, nor to trust his own followers that much, which speaks to the influence of a third-party advisor. Now, I am unclear how Voldemort would come to know of the organization, but I do not think it matters overmuch."

"Well, we don't know much about him by way of background," Dad said, reaching for the coffeepot himself. "He could be internationally trained himself. We don't know."

"With that nativist and xenophobic streak?" Moody snorted. "Not likely. But one of his followers might have heard of us and mentioned it."

"Whatever it is, it worked." Uncle James' face was a grim mask. "We died for it."

"I don't think it could have been anticipated." Lina sighed. "It's done. There was also some mental preparation lacking, but I don't think we could have prepared better. My unit had the advantage – I don't give a shit about killing people I know when they're on the other side, and the Queenscoves are too new to have many connections. But Goldenlake and the Shafiqs struggled; they went to school with people on the other side, they had relationships with people on the other side, and they didn't want to kill people they knew. And no one wanted to kill Pansy Parkinson – that girl made mincemeat of the main group."

"I would appreciate if we _did_ avoid killing Miss Parkinson," Aldon interrupted, his accent somewhat sharper than usual. "She is… a childhood friend. I am sure she has been Imperiused, or something of the like. I cannot see her murdering anyone."

"Well, she did," Lina said flatly. "She might have only killed Lucius Malfoy to break us out at the coup, but she was fully on their side here. I saw her cursing Jennifer Abernathy myself."

Aldon looked away. "Still. She is still a child. I'd like if we did _not_ kill her."

"A child by only a few months," Lina snapped. "She's seventeen in September. Imperiused or not, we cannot hesitate if we run into her."

Aldon shook his head, but he had no answer. Instead, he picked up his mug of coffee, drinking from it with a troubled look on his face.

"In general, Aurors aren't trained to kill," Moody added quietly. "It wasn't only Pansy Parkinson. Auror training focuses on stop and arrest tactics. The duelling circuit, too, emphasizes form over practicality, with limits on the spells that may be used. Put under stress, our troops fell back on what they knew best: spells to disarm, Stun and arrest, or minor curses like Stinging Hexes, Knockback Jinxes, or the Full Body Bind. Voldemort's followers had a year of attacks where they became used to using more powerful spells, to torturing and killing, and we didn't prepare to do the same. That was an oversight on Avery's and my part. As trained warmages, it should have occurred to us. We apologize."

Lina nodded, looking into her mug of coffee. There was a moment of silence, but when she spoke her voice was begrudging. "I also erred. I am… with all due respect, Alastor, Lord Potter, I am the most seasoned one here. I came to this fresh off a three-month tour with the Dhampiri Order in Georgia, and before that I have thirty years' experience as a mercenary. Alastor never held himself out for hire—"

"Absolutely disgusting practice."

She ignored him. "And while you are an accomplished Auror, Lord Potter, policing is a very different game than war. I … allowed myself not to care. I let myself be satisfied with getting what I wanted, which was to lead a small group of volunteers who already had reason to trust and follow me absolutely. I didn't care about the bigger picture, and I didn't help or advise you with the main group. I should have."

"I'm not sure I would have listened." Uncle James was similarly quiet. "I don't know much about you, Avery, and the Lord Rosier being…" he paused, his eyes resting on Aldon, who was staring at the table with a vaguely embarrassed look on his face. "Well, I'm not sure I would have listened."

There was a long moment of silence, and Archie looked from Dad to Uncle James, to Aldon and Lina and Moody. "So... what happens next? The _Daily Prophet_ is making us out to be the enemy, and... what do we do?"

Uncle James took a deep, shaky, breath, reasoning out loud. "This—this critically changes things for us. We lost too many people, and we can't win on an outright strike. More importantly, Voldemort now has something concrete that he can use against us. Statements in an underground newspaper are one thing, but we have now committed a major action against the Ministry. He also has the bodies of our dead, so he knows, or he can guess, who a lot of our allies are. They're going to come after us, and after our families."

"It is not so bad as all that," Moody countered gruffly. "We took heavy losses, but so did he, and those we killed were among his most loyal. His hold on the Ministry is strengthening—"

"And it's only going to strengthen after this," Dad grumbled, under his breath.

"Yes, but we took out enough that he's needs to abide by certain rules in order to continue strengthening his hold. He needs to be seen obeying the law and following criminal procedure. That means issuing and serving arrest warrants, which we can dodge, and that should buy us some time." Moody smiled, or at least Archie thought it was supposed to be a smile, though it was more a grim slash across his face. "Failing to serve us properly, he'll then need to be seen seeking exemptions from the usual criminal procedure or passing new laws, and then he'll need to do public show trials _in absentia_, and all sorts of bureaucratic nonsense. Only then will he build enough support for a full-scale attack against us."

"I have a spy in the Department of Justice," Aldon offered with a slight, humourless smile. "I will ask her to delay the warrants and other procedural matters as long as possible. Routine administrative incompetence breeds wonders."

"For now, we need to regroup," Lina added calmly. "One of Voldemort's greatest advantages is that he is centralized at Malfoy Manor and the Ministry of Magic—we need to make our decentralization our strength. Any allies not already in a defensible location needs to move into one, but each safehouse needs to have enough internal expertise to stand on its own. Internal command, internal Healers, the works, with emergency escape routes if they need to abandon a location. Unlike Voldemort, we need to be able to lose a holding, keep most of our people, and continue resisting."

"We don't have enough Healers," Archie broke in, his heart sinking. "Not fully trained and licensed Healers—there's Mrs. Hurst, and Neal, maybe a handful of others, but not enough to staff every safehouse."

"This is a war, and we make do." Lina's brown eyes were hard as she looked at him. "I understand that you, Harriett Potter, and Hermione Granger are all trained in Healing, even without a license. We'll have to build Healing capacity, and right now, I don't care who has a licence to Heal and who doesn't."

Archie swallowed, nodding. When she addressed him directly, and in that tone, it was unnerving. "I'll put together a basic Healing training program, then. But what about transportation? If they're going to come after us, then we're going to need better transportation than Apparition and No-Maj transit. I can Apparate, but Hermione—"

"Blake & Associates is on the transportation problems already," Aldon cut in. "We will handle it, but we need materials. Speaking of which, what do we know about Voldemort's supply chains? If we can obtain our required resources while depriving Voldemort of the same, that would be all the better."

"Striking at non-combatants?" Uncle James frowned coldly at Aldon. "We're not terrorists."

"We'll be called terrorists no matter what we do." Dad argued, his voice entirely practical. "In these circumstances, James, we need to strike at Voldemort where we can. I'll find out where and how they import goods—if you tell me what you need, Aldon, I'll find out where they're being stored. We'll plan a hit, it shouldn't need a big strike force."

Uncle James grimaced, but Archie was surprised to see he didn't argue. "As little violence as possible on those, please. If we want to take over the government, we need to avoid as many instances where we can be accused of terrorism as possible. We need more troops. What about our allies, can they help?"

"The Clans, the Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish are reluctant to send too many of their troops out of their territory." Aldon pushed away his empty coffee mug, shaking his head. "We can negotiate, but they are most concerned about their own lands. To them, we are already another nation."

"We need to recruit," Moody grunted. "Hell if I know where or who we're going to recruit, though. The Alleys might not have been bad, but Voldemort torched the ones most likely to support us. The SOW nobles, if they can swallow their blood purity, the ones who aren't already on the other side, maybe. British expatriates?"

"We'd need to make them more promises," Archie said, similarly shaking his head. "It's one thing to ask British newbloods and halfbloods to provide the support they _have_ agreed to, being lobbying, financial support and refugee assistance, but now you're asking them to give up their lives abroad for a country that basically expelled them when they were eleven? That's a huge ask, and they don't trust us enough for it."

"The Guilds?" Even saying so, Uncle James didn't sound like he had much hope for them. "The general population is going to be running confused—they trusted the _Daily Prophet_, but it's a lot of change that Voldemort is asking them to accept. At the same time, _Bridge _was making some headway, but now we'll be vilified."

"I wouldn't hold out much hope for the Guilds." Aldon frowned in thought. "Voldemort was clearly targeting Guild support in his first press release, and I have a source that reports that he is acting on his promise to enact trade protections. I can make some of those instructions disappear, but not all of them. We'll need to have a response in _Bridge_. He calls us the rebellion—we need to recharacterize this as a civil war."

"I'll put it in _Bridge_ this week," Archie agreed, reaching back to mutter a muscle relaxant spell into his tense shoulders. "Just have to write it, then get it out. How about the radio station? You were having someone in the Clans look into it, not too long ago."

Aldon blinked. "In all honesty, I had forgotten. I will reach out to Toby on it. We can afford the equipment."

"There's an idea. New tactic." Lina reached for the coffeepot again. "Wars are fought on multiple fronts: information is one. We might reach a different, younger audience with radio. Make it hip and fun, cool. We might get some new recruits, which we need."

The expression on Aldon's face said clearly what he thought about that, and Archie couldn't help but agree. War was dangerous, and he didn't like the idea of making it out to be anything other than what it was: an unavoidable necessity.

"War as _cool. _Imagine," Moody growled, grimacing in disgust, before looking around the table. "In summary: we move to guerilla-style tactics. We consolidate our forces at heavily defended safehouses and in safe territory, and we start instituting a decentralized command network. We'll plan escape routes between our holdings. Archie will put together a basic Healing training program and manage the communications from _Bridge_; Aldon will have his spies on delay tactics, handle our transportation issues and reach out to his contact on a wireless station for recruitment purposes. Sirius will look into Voldemort's supply chain and will organize a strike for any needed resources. Does that sound fair?"

"I'll identify people who might succeed in command roles for our other safehouses," Uncle James said, with a deep sigh. He picked up his list of the dead, looking at it with a heavy, bitter expression. "I need to write letters of condolence to the families. If we're a legitimate army, in a legitimate civil war, then we need to act like it."

"Let me help with the letters. We want them out as soon as possible, Uncle James, so—so I'll help draft them and hopefully we can get them out faster that way. I'll – I'll also see to it that obituaries are printed in _Bridge_." Archie smiled, a little weak as he looked around the table. "Since it doesn't look like the _Prophet_ will be printing them any time soon."

If the night before was hard, and the meeting was hard, then helping to draft the letters of condolence was even harder. The first one was the absolute worst, because they didn't have a template for them yet, and had to settle on the formulation for the letter. They couldn't even use the templates included in an etiquette book that Dad had dug out for them. _I am deeply saddened to hear of your loss..._ just didn't cut it when the person had died in an attack that that _they_ had led.

Eventually, they settled on a simple format, with the first paragraph informing the family members of the death and the second paragraph personalized, mentioning the person's courage, their spirit, their kindness, or whatever else they could remember. The second paragraph, Archie thought, was _necessary_ – how would it feel to receive a bland letter, after a loved one's death? They _had_ to be personalized, even if it meant that they had to dredge up memories that hurt too much, too soon.

He asked questions about the dead, took notes of the things that Dad and Uncle James said stood out about each person, and suggested wording while Dad and Uncle James, who both had the formal noble penmanship trained into them, wrote the letters themselves. More owls came in, people reporting deaths, which Archie cross-referenced against Uncle James' list. Thirty-two letters went out under Uncle James' signature, and Archie knew that, at Rosier Place, Lina and Moody were doing the same.

It sucked. It sucked, and when he Apparated home to Grimmauld Place, without Dad who had stayed behind to help attach the letters to owls and send them out, he dwelled on the people he never knew, tiny details about them that he needed to remember to write in an obituary. The obituaries had to be _good_ ones – anything the _Prophet_ published would paint them as criminals, so it would be up to _Bridge_ to paint them as heroes. _He_ would paint them as heroes.

There were twin redheads sitting on his doorstep. He blinked.

"Why the long face, pup?" One of the Weasleys grinned, standing up.

"Poor joke, Fred," the other one commented, with a softer smile. "Not really the time."

"Er…" Archie looked from one to the other, then he decided he might as well come out and say it. The Weasleys hadn't been in the group recruited by Uncle James, and while he _liked_ them well enough, he didn't know if he had the emotional energy to handle them right now. "Are you looking for Harry?"

"Isn't she still abroad?" George, or at least the one that Archie assumed was George, said with an inquisitive smile.

"From the question, I think we can safely say not."

"But that's not why we came here anyway," George finished. "Did you know your Floo is disconnected? We had to look up Apparition coordinates for you. Had to hex a Ministry minion who was hovering around setting up surveillance spells, too, you know. Better be careful."

Archie rubbed his forehead. He was a prankster too, but there was a time and a place, and this wasn't one of them. He had to coordinate the obituaries for thirty-eight people he had never met, and he was tired, and thank god Harry had returned early and said she would look after Uncle Remus and redress his bandages. "Thanks for that. Look, this isn't really a good time—"

"We know." George interrupted, the smile disappearing. "Our uncle Gideon—"

"Mum's been in a right state all day."

Archie sighed, looking down, feeling ashamed of himself. He hadn't known that the Weasleys were relatives of the Prewetts, but he should have known. No matter how tired he was, he had to find something within him for them. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

He didn't know what else to say. The letters were hard enough, but what did one say to family members who came to him? Were they here seeking revenge, to look at a symbol of the war, to blame him? Or was it something else?

One of the twins slung an arm over his shoulders. Archie was surprised to see that he was taller than they were now, and the couple inches difference made it awkward. Either way, the twin didn't notice. "Hey, he died a hero, didn't he? That's what Uncle Fabian said, and Moody's letter said it too. We're not blaming you. We're here to offer our help."

Archie looked up from the ground, surprised. "You? But—"

"We're seventeen," the other twin said, a stubborn tilt to his chin. "We graduated school. We can make our own decisions."

Archie paused. A week ago, he would have welcomed them with open arms, but now… "It's not that, but… it's dangerous. What about your family? If you're with us, Voldemort is going to target your families, not just you."

The twins exchanged a look, and one of them shrugged. "We know. Our parents… Mum wants us all to lay low, says we're too young and that this is something for the Wizengamot to work out, and with Ron and Ginny still going to Hogwarts they have to toe the line. But Perce is an informant already—"

"Who would have thought it, that _Percy_ would be the first of us to dive into revolution?" The other twin added, with a small smile.

"And Bill heard about the Alleys. He and Charlie are both still abroad, but we're going to be targeted one way or another. As for us—"

"Here we are. We want to help. We're decent with our wands, but our gifts are really…" The twin grinned, and Archie had lost track of which one was which. "We're inventors. And we have other talents, too—got rid of that pesky official watching your door, after all."

Archie smiled back at them. It trembled, but it held. "Then, I guess – come on in."

It wasn't their first time at Grimmauld Place – he remembered that Percy had brought them along for his post-trial party, and that they had argued vociferously with Derrick and Saoirse about Quidditch and learned some dance. They were Harry's friends, that much he knew, the friends that he had always thought he would get along with best, but he couldn't say that he knew either of them very well. He had only met them once while pretending to be Rigel, and once as himself.

"Tea?" he asked, gesturing for the twins to take a seat at the kitchen table. "Or water, if you'd prefer."

"Either is fine," said one of the twins, pulling out one of the wooden seats. "Whatever is easier."

Archie smiled in thanks – British he might be, but he felt like he had made a dozen pots of tea in the past twenty-four hours, and about half as many pots of coffee. He pulled out a pitcher, one of Mum's old favourites decorated with azaleas, and filled it with water. "So, what are you thinking in terms of helping?"

The other twin shrugged. "What do you think would be helpful? Er, I guess you don't know much about us?"

"I know what Harry and Dad told me." Archie raised an eyebrow. "The next generation of pranksters at Hogwarts?"

They grinned, and one laughed. "We aren't at Hogwarts anymore, so maybe the newer and shinier version of the Marauders is better? When Weasley Wizarding Wheezes hits the market, your dad won't know what hit him."

Archie smiled back. He had heard enough of them from Dad and Harry, and seen enough of their ideas, that he couldn't be offended. "Dad will love the competition."

"Or he will, once we have the funding." The other twin sighed, his face taking on a more serious cast. "We were thinking, though, that some of our inventions might have war applications, and be a chance for us to show our skills."

"So, research and development?" Archie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Ugh, no," the first redhead replied, making a face. "George might have a bit more patience for that, but we're not the type to sit and think for hours."

"We do like action, but we probably wouldn't fit in well in your usual troops, either," George added, with a more sheepish look. "We've… never really taken orders well. Ideally, we'd like to do things like sabotage, or maybe recruitment—"

"Or we could be spies!"

"We'd be awful spies, Fred." George slapped his brother on the shoulder. "But we _are_ generally well-liked, so recruitment might work for us. But sabotage would be—"

"The best," Fred finished. "We'd be good at sabotage."

"But we'll still fight if we need to fight," George added hastily. "I mean, I doubt we can avoid it, and we're up to it—"

"It's just not where we would be best placed."

The exchange was so fast, a ping-pong ball bouncing from one twin to the other, that Archie needed a moment to process it. Most of the spy network and sabotage was within the shifter Alliance, of whom Archie had main contact only with Armand and Hannah, and he wasn't sure how they would feel about adding two more. Aldon's secret informants did some of the same sort of work, but most of them already had positions in the Ministry, or they were busy ingratiating themselves in Voldemort's group. The twins weren't in the Ministry and Archie somehow doubted they could believably join with Voldemort. Recruitment, though... "I don't suppose either of you would know anything about the Wizarding Wireless Network, or Muggle radio, would you?"

The twins glanced at each other, then George shrugged. "Some. Not a lot, but I think we could work it out. We only got about three NEWTS between the two of us, but one of them was in Charms."

Archie smiled. "I think I might have a project for you."

Meeting with the twins was, at least, a bright note that marked the following days. The edition of _Bridge _that came out a few days later was thicker than usual, covering their own report of the attack, a response to the _Daily Prophet_, and effusive obituaries for their dead. Archie had hoped that it would mean more people would come forward to help, but the Weasley twins were followed only by a few others – mostly young, almost all untrained. Aldon saw more come forward, especially from the Ministry, if only because people were more inclined to volunteer in secret informant roles where they felt more secure.

"It's a lie, of course," Aldon said, matter-of-fact, at yet another meeting. If anyone had told Archie years ago that war was mostly meetings, he'd never have believed it, but there he was, stuck in another one. "They feel more secure because very little actually changes for them on a day to day basis. They keep their jobs and their income, but there is very little we can do if any of them are caught. In fact, they are in more danger than the rest."

"Are you warning them?" Archie asked, a little skeptical. "I mean, if they're putting themselves in that much danger…"

"I need the information." Aldon looked away, no doubt anticipating what Archie would say next. "I need it more than I can afford to warn them."

"I want you to warn them, Aldon." Archie glared at the man, trying to emphasize his meaning. "I don't want us, or _Bridge_, to be that kind of organization. Warn them of the dangers, when they come forward. You can emphasize that the information they have to provide you is important, but you have to warn them."

There was a long moment of silence, before Aldon spoke, the word twisting out of his mouth. "Fine."

Just as they had predicted, the arrest warrants were out for him, Dad, Uncle James, Lina Avery, Aldon Rosier, Alastor Moody, Fabian Prewett, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a long list of their most recognizable allies within the week. Most of a week was all Aldon could buy them—his spy sat on the arrest warrants as long as she could through plain bureaucratic and administrative incompetence, but it couldn't be forever. It was long enough for them to pull their surviving troops back to a set list of safehouses, and to start organizing escape routes out of the country for their allies' families. By the end of that week, all of their names and faces were splashed over the front pages of the _Daily Prophet_, with an attached, expanding list of their crimes, and reports came in saying that identical posters were plastered over the shop fronts in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade as well.

They were all under surveillance. From his upstairs bedroom at Grimmauld Place, Archie could see the Auror stationed just outside his front gate, just waiting for him or Dad to appear so that he could arrest them. There was no chance of that happening, or so Archie hoped—Dad had, over three days, reconfigured the Grimmauld Place wards to allow for Apparition from one back corner of the lot, and Aldon told them the Silence Rune trick to keep their comings and goings secret. It wasn't ideal, but it was functional until Aldon came up with an answer to their transportation problems.

Another few days, and despite an unusual and likely fabricated hubbub of confusion about how new laws were to be passed without the Wizengamot, the Ministry of Magic succeeded in passing new laws in the name of national security. First, a curfew was instituted – no witch or wizards was to be outside after ten at night. Then, a new vital statistics and census law passed, requiring all witches and wizards to attend at the Ministry of Magic within the next two months to provide their name, their addresses, their family trees, and to register their wands – those that didn't comply, the law warned, would have their citizenship struck. The minimum sentences for aiding and abetting in any crime were increased, especially as they pertained to sedition, treason, and conspiracy, and laws applying to search and seizure were loosened. Criminal procedure was also simplified, in the name of increasing efficiency but obviously intended to allow Voldemort to begin his show trials against Uncle James, Dad, Archie himself and their other allies without following the usual protocols for a trial _in absentia_.

"None of this is _surprising_, you know," Hermione said, folding the paper after yet another article proclaiming laws that would restrict their freedoms – this one about mass gatherings, whether it be in public or in private homes. Even as she said so, her lips were pursed, and she looked deeply unhappy. "This is the low-hanging fruit; this is what governments do when they want to enforce control. Wizarding or not, Voldemort is enacting the exact same kinds of laws that No-Maj governments have always passed when they're trying to establish control."

They ignored the new laws, publishing a piece in _Bridge _that week reminding their readers of the illegitimacy, and the danger, of the new Ministry of Magic. _Bridge_ emphasized that this was no rebellion, but a civil war. To underscore the point, all pseudonyms were dropped – they were all in the same amount of danger regardless, none of them were obeying any subpoenas to court anyway, and their doors, and homes, were barred to Ministry Aurors regardless of what warrants they were carrying. Less fortunate were those that were caught on the streets: Sturgis Podmore had been arrested, along with a number of friends of their other allies. The shifter Alliance was taking greater care for their own people, but there were only so many warnings they could give. Every street arrest felt like a punch to Archie's gut, though Dad was more impassive.

"We do what we can, Arch," he said, shaking his head in regret. "Sturgis was _never_ careful enough. If we told him once, we told him a dozen times—"

"Most of these arrests aren't even ours!" Archie railed, throwing the day's arrest list into the fire in a burst of fury. "I don't—most of these people have nothing to do with us! They're innocent!"

"And we have to trust that the Department of Justice has enough dedication to the law to let them go when the evidence doesn't hold up." Dad gripped his shoulder, steely grey eyes sympathetic. "Look, I'll have a word with Aldon—his spy might be able to do something for some of these people, but war is messy. We won't be able to save them all, Archie."

Archie had stared back at his Dad, his face crumpling, but there wasn't much he could do. Not from being in the closest thing to house arrest without actually being under house arrest. If it weren't for one of Aldon's house-elves, they wouldn't even have food, since they couldn't go out for groceries themselves. Instead, Archie threw himself into his old Healing textbooks, building a short Healing bootcamp program that he hoped he could run someone through in a matter of weeks to get them battle-ready. He stripped out the theory, most of the diseases, and focused on trauma, curses, and counter-curses—the latter of which he had never specialized in, and which he had to teach himself out of books as he went along.

The third week, and the first opportunity that the Ministry could legally act given the bureaucratic delays that Aldon's spy and their own stubborn intransigence had managed to buy, Voldemort struck back under the guise of executing a search and seizure warrant. Moody's house was torched, as was the Chesmore residence, but Moody had long since moved to Rosier Place and the Chesmores were holding out with the Naxens. Moody was shockingly nonchalant about it, merely shrugging his shoulders about his burnt out property.

"I knew the simulacra I planted in my house would come in useful one day," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "They were completely taken in, and all my traps went off without a hitch. They didn't walk away from my house unscathed!"

"Martin Chesmore wants his wife and children sent out of country as soon as possible, though," Dad added, looking at Hermione, who only nodded tiredly. She was still able to move a little more freely than the rest—while the Ministry knew her name, they weren't yet sure on her appearance, and she had figured out how to make a single-use Portkey to take her where she needed as long as it wasn't warded.

At least, and to Archie's great relief, the ICW agreed with them that they were at civil war. News from their allies and their informants alike were that, despite Voldemort's orders to downplay it as internal unrest, the other member states generally agreed that there had been a change of power and Wizarding Britain had effectively collapsed. There were holdouts – Wizarding Russia and its closest ally states took no position at all, while Wizarding China considered it irrelevant to their interests and ignored it totally. Wizarding France was, as usual, divided between the old families that supported Voldemort for his views in blood purity and the remainder of the population that didn't, and took weeks to come to a lukewarm agreement with the voting bloc led by Wizarding America. It took three weeks, but the ICW passed a resolution stating that Wizarding Britain was in a humanitarian crisis and recommending that all member states provide aid.

Hermione was drowning in refugee logistics. Even with the first refugee group gone to Stord, she was caught in reports from the Wizarding Nordic Union about their problems. Food and other supplies from other nations were slow in coming, and conflicts were developing between the camp and the surrounding population. Primarily wizarding as the west coast of Stord was, there had been about fifteen incidents threatening the Statute of Secrecy, and the alleys had always had an innate resistance to any sort of outside authority. At the end of July, she, Harry and Leo slipped out of Wizarding Britain under false identities and appearances, flying to Stord to settle the issues.

But there were always more requests for help with it came to refugees. Newbloods and many halfbloods, those with one foot in the No-Maj world, found it easy to slip away on their own means: leaves of absence were taken, new jobs obtained abroad, and they were on the next No-Maj plane out of Britain. Others, however, struggled – most of those who came forward were legal halfbloods or members of ally families, those who were no friend to the new Ministry of Magic but who had been wizarding their entire lives. Aunt Lily was caught up making powerful international Portkeys to the closest friendly Portkey Hub in Wizarding France, and refugees went out to Wizarding Germany, America, Canada, and Australia. Fortunately, these groups did seem to cope better than the Alley refugees had – they hadn't been as traumatized, Hermione said, and they had had some semblance of choice, so they were better prepared to adapt.

By his birthday, the first week of August, things were clear. Wizarding Britain was at war, and it would not be ending anytime soon. Hermione received a letter from AIM, sent through the No-Maj post to her home address in Oxford.

"They're changing the student flight," she said, reaching into a rucksack and pulling out the letter. "It's flying out of Marrakech this year, but they've guaranteed a Portkey from Paris to Marrakech. Paris is easier for most of ours to get to by No-Maj trains, and the Scottish and Irish Portkey Hubs are still safe."

Archie looked up from his meeting notes – this one with Armand Abbott at the _Daily Prophet_, a warning about the newest headline to come out tomorrow. He had completely forgotten that school would be back in less than a month. "Oh."

He stared at her for a moment, silent – her expression was solemn, determined, and there was a quirk in her eyebrows, her lips slightly pinched. It was her _I cannot believe I am doing this_ face, combined with her _I have a responsibility_ face, all rolled into her _this is the right thing to do_ face.

He understood. AIM was his Healing training, it was his studies in Infectious Disease, it was theatre. There was still even a script in his bag, upstairs, which he hadn't been able to glance at more than once or twice all summer. AIM was his future. But he couldn't leave – not with Britain like this.

"So…" Archie started, looking towards the letter in her hand again – light, No-Maj paper, completely nondescript. "Are you going back to school, 'Mione?"

Hermione shook her head, a tiny movement. "I can't. Archie, I'm coordinating more than half of the logistics to get refugees out of Britain, and I'm the primary British contact for refugee assistance and aid. I've – I've filed the forms to defer the year."

Archie nodded. He understood, and he glanced at the letter again. "I don't… Dad isn't going to like it."

He looked at her, and her brown eyes were understanding. She nodded slowly. It _sucked_, putting their educations on hold, but they didn't have much choice. Archie couldn't leave Britain, not while this was happening – even if he didn't have any precise role, half of their allies always seemed ready to break off if he wasn't there, and sometimes it seemed like things just wouldn't happen unless he reminded everyone of what was important. They didn't talk, the many gears that made up the war machine, and even two months later some groups were all too ready to leap down each other's throats.

"Okay," he said, the impact of his decision hitting him in one swoop, and he took a deep breath. "All right. No school next year. Can I get a copy of the deferral forms?"

"Already had them." Hermione smiled, a little weakly, reaching back into her rucksack. "I even filled them out for you, so you can just… sign them and I'll send it express back to AIM."

Archie smiled back, grateful, reaching for his pen. "You're always ahead of the game, 'Mione."

To his surprise, AIM wrote back within the week, advising that not only had his and Hermione's requests for deferral been approved, but that they would be given partial credit for the year, including two elective Healing credits in Emergency Healing, a Defense credit, and an International Relations credit. Both John, at the ICW, and Keladry Mindelan, at Queenscove, filed for deferrals too, though John was annoyed to have gotten only got two International Relations credits, while Kel was getting her full year of credits and graduating on time with her Defense Mastery.

As August dragged on, they settled in. No war ended easily, and they hunkered down, regrouping and planning their next move.

XXX

Draco was reading on his sofa – the _Daily Prophet_, again, and _Bridge_, taking notes to put on the wall of information that he had started three weeks ago. No one except Harry was telling him anything, nor did she seem to know everything, so he had to piece most of it together from the newspapers that were left for him. It was frustrating, and it was slow work, but at least it was something for him to do. Based on his reading, he had managed to put together a rough idea of who was on which side, though he still had huge holes in his information.

He didn't really know what he was going to do with it all yet. He was just collecting it to know, because information was always useful. There was a part of him that still toyed with the idea of getting out, getting away from Rosier Place and fleeing overseas, but he knew enough now to know that it wasn't reasonable.

He couldn't leave Britain without Pansy. Pansy had given herself up for him—he could never repay that by leaving without her. He had started his wall of information trying to work out where Voldemort was keeping her, thinking abstractly that he might be able to rescue her and they could run away together, but it seemed like Voldemort was keeping her close. Too close, close enough that rescuing her would be no easy task.

Voldemort had taken them unprepared at Malfoy Manor, and even Rosier's group hadn't managed to take back his home. Draco wasn't so stupid to think that he alone could challenge Voldemort, rescue Pansy, and flee the country without help. For now, Rosier Place was probably the best place for him to stay while he worked out what to do next.

He was still free to wander Rosier Place as he pleased, but there was little point. It was safe there, but that was all it was—there was no one he wanted to speak to, and everyone was busy. He often ate with the motley group of Muggleborns and halfbloods that met in the formal Rosier dining room every night, though he didn't understand most of what they talked about: an American sport called Quodpot featured prominently, or Muggle sports like football or cricket. They talked about the _television shows_ they were missing, the _Internet_ they longed for, or, most often, the food that they missed. Things with foreign names, like _yam cha_, _bayaaynatu_ or _bamayan_, _pad sew_ and _pho_ and _palak paneer_.

He didn't know what they were, and he wasn't wholly sure he wanted to know. He didn't ask, and even if he sat with them, he rarely said anything to them. They were kind enough, always polite and saying hello when he joined them, but he just didn't have much to say.

Instead, he just listened.

They didn't speak like he had always thought Muggleborns and halfbloods would speak, not that he had ever really given much thought to how they would speak. He had just assumed it would be different, somehow. They were all internationally trained, but they all had Masteries of one kind or another. There weren't any magical accidents at the table, and from the mere fact that they all held Masteries, he somehow doubted that they lacked for power, either. Maybe they weren't the magical powerhouses that Riddle and Harry represented, but Draco wasn't either and Harry was a halfblood anyway.

There was a knock at his door.

It couldn't be Harry, not at this hour. It was long after the dinner hour, and with Rosier being conservative even for a Dark pureblood—or, he corrected himself, not a pureblood but one educated as a Dark Society pureblood—he doubted that Rosier accepted visitors to Rosier Place this late at night. He thought about ignoring it, feigning sleep, but his curiosity won out. It had to be someone staying at Rosier Place, but there was no one here that would have anything to say to him.

The Lord Rosier, radiating a mix of tiredness and discomfort, stood in the doorway.

"Excuse the late hour," the man said, absurdly proper even in the middle of a war. "May I come in?"

Draco studied him for a minute, then he left the door open and walked back into his rooms, sitting down on the sofa. "It's your manor."

It was a lukewarm invitation, if it even was one, but Rosier came in anyway. He looked around, somehow discomfited, and took a seat in an armchair where he could look at Draco while he spoke. Draco wasn't sure what Rosier wanted with him, since he had already passed the test and hadn't left the manor since he arrived, but he waited.

"I came to talk to you about—about what comes next, I suppose," Rosier said, leaning forward with a resigned sense, his eyes scanning the wall that Draco had covered with his research from the newspapers. Lists of names, for both Voldemort's side and _Bridge _members, with red thread marking traditional blood connections between names and white thread marking the alliances he knew, by which Draco tried to guess where other families he knew fell. Aldon raised an eyebrow at the red-and-white cobweb, but he didn't comment. "As you know, we've suffered major losses recently—nothing in Wizarding Britain is safe, so I have made preparations for you to join your mother in Geneva."

"Geneva—" Draco blinked, taken aback. Of course, he wanted to see his mother, and of course, he had thought about leaving and doing the same, but at the same time—

Pansy was here. Harry was here. Pansy was a captive here, and if he left, he would be leaving them here.

"Yes, Geneva," Aldon repeated, emanating a sense of tired impatience even if his voice was even. "Your mother wishes for you to join her in Geneva. Although there are charges against you, Switzerland is far from Wizarding Britain, and without an extradition treaty. I can also tell you that your friend, Miss Bulstrode, is now with the Wizarding British delegation there. Although formally she will likely be barred from seeing you, I trust that she is clever enough to slip away from the delegation from time to time. Geneva is considerably safer for you, and you wouldn't be as lonely, there."

"And Pansy?" Draco demanded, incensed at Aldon's patronizing tone. "What about Pansy? How could I leave without Pansy, or Harry, or Blaise, or anyone else?"

Aldon shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Harry and Blaise, as I am sure you are well aware, are an active part of this war effort. They are staying, and as for Pansy—"

"What about Pansy?" Draco interrupted, pointing at his wall, his hand trembling slightly. "She's still captured. She's still there, with Voldemort. What are you doing about it?"

Aldon coughed, looking away. "I have been making efforts, but… Well. There have been some troubling reports that she has become one of Voldemort's highest-level advisors—"

"No." Draco sat bolt upright, feeling short of breath. The room spun. That didn't make any sense. Pansy was a _prisoner_ of Voldemort, not on his side. She couldn't be on his side, that didn't make any sense at all. "Pansy isn't—Pansy wouldn't—"

"I can hardly believe it either, yet I have multiple accounts of her leading a unit at the Malfoy Manor strike." Rosier paused. "She did very well and was apparently quite destructive against our main flank."

"She has to have been Imperiused," Draco argued, nearly standing up in his need to convince Rosier of the fact. "She doesn't know what she's doing. Pansy wouldn't do that, and she wouldn't hurt a fly."

Rosier held up his hands, placating. "I understand, however, the facts are the facts. She was on the battlefield as an enemy combatant, which … complicates matters. Despite what you might think, Malfoy, I am not in command of any of the military matters, and there is nothing I can do for her based on the information I have. There is nothing that I can do for _her_, but we have decided that we can get you out to Geneva. I am sure that—I am sure that she would be glad to know that you are safe abroad."

Rosier was now radiating a sense of regret, sorrow and worry, which made sense. Pansy was one of Rosier's childhood friends, and as much as Draco might not personally like Rosier, he doubted that Rosier would leave Pansy to be a captive if there were anything he could do. Draco fell silent, looking down at his coffee table for a few minutes.

He could go to Geneva. His mother was in Geneva, and he loved his mother, and she wanted him there, which was more than he could say for anyone here. He could return to something like a normal life—not like it would be in Britain, but he wouldn't be living in a manor that had been heavily mined with trap spells with people who were ambivalent at best about him, and he wouldn't be in the middle of a war. Millie would be there, and even if he hadn't been on the best of terms of her over the last year, he knew now that he owed her an apology and he knew that she would accept it. In Geneva, the war would fade into the distance, and he would have his mother beside him, his only remaining family, and he would have Millie. He wouldn't be alone, or at least not so often as he was now.

But Harry would still be here in Britain, and Blaise. Pansy was still a captive, and based on what Aldon had just told him, he guessed that Aldon was struggling to convince his allies that Pansy wasn't on Voldemort's side, however it looked. He _knew_ Pansy—whatever Pansy said or did was for her own survival, and he had a responsibility to stay here and try to convince anyone who would listen that Pansy was a prisoner, not one of Voldemort's followers. He had a duty to try to rescue her, by any means possible, after what she had done for him.

He couldn't leave. If he left, he would be abandoning his duty, leaving Pansy to Voldemort, and he would be leaving the rest of his friends to fend for themselves. If he left, seeking safety for himself, he would be a coward.

Draco Malfoy was not a coward.

"I don't want to go," he said, looking at Rosier directly. "No one else is evacuating."

"Actually, quite a lot of people are evacuating right now," Rosier replied, thoughtful, but Draco cut him off.

"No, that's not what I meant. I—" he paused, steadying himself. "I'm not going."

Rosier stared at him, his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "Then what will you do? Excuse me for stating the obvious, but we are at war. Everyone in this household, except for you, is an active part of the war effort. While I don't mean to ask you to leave, if you are not a part of the war effort, it would be best for you to leave and go to Geneva."

Draco started, a little surprised, though he knew he probably shouldn't have been. "The Muggleborns and halfbloods—"

He hadn't seen them doing anything that looked war-related at all. They were always in the library, either locked in the study rooms or talking at one of the big tables, or reading, but they didn't look like they were training, or planning attacks, or anything that he would consider a part of any war effort.

"Blake & Associates is very much a part of the war effort," Rosier replied, and there was a cold edge to his voice. "Their duties are not of your concern, however, because you are _not_ part of this war. To speak bluntly, Malfoy, Rosier Place does not have the resources here for people who are not an active part of the war effort. It—" He paused. "It is not personal, regardless of how it may seem. I really—things have become a great deal more dangerous for us, over the past few weeks."

Draco looked down. Rosier wasn't wrong. His wall of collected information had told him that much, with show trials against Alastor Moody and another family, the Chesmores, already underway. They said that Lord James Potter would be next, then Sirius Black and a long list of names that were neatly printed on Draco's wall, including his own. Rosier's own feelings, tiredness, worry and grim determination, didn't contradict it. Rosier spoke sense, but Draco didn't have to like it.

He didn't know if he agreed with anything Rosier, or Blaise, or Harry were standing for right now. But he didn't think he had to agree, either. There were two sides to this war: there was Voldemort, and there was not-Voldemort, and Voldemort wanted to arrest him, put on him a show trial for corruption, and probably execute him if he could capture him. Voldemort had Pansy, and god only knew what Voldemort was doing to Pansy while not-Voldemort tripped over itself arguing over whether she was on his side or not.

Draco could live with not-Voldemort, and they could argue over things like blood discrimination laws or governance later.

And if he was part of Rosier's side, he could help convince them that Pansy wasn't on the other side. Pansy couldn't be, because it was Pansy, and Pansy wasn't a killer. She had to have been Imperiused, or worse. This was a fact written into his soul, and he needed to do everything he could to rescue her. She had given herself up for him, so he had to rescue her.

"What would it take…" Draco started, then he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "What would it take for me to join your side?"

There was a pause, and Aldon was looking at him, very seriously. "What do you think you can offer?"

Draco didn't know. He would have offered his alliance, once, but he didn't know how much that was worth now that Malfoy Manor had been captured. He would have said influence, once, but he didn't have much influence to wield anymore. He would have offered money, once, but he didn't have any money anymore.

He didn't even have a wand, anymore.

"I can… I can work," Draco said, scrambling. "I led the Duelling Club at Hogwarts for years, so if I have a wand, I can fight, or I can help train people and lead workouts. If there are SOW Party families that haven't joined Voldemort, I can try to help sway them. I might also know some things about the families that did join Voldemort that could be helpful."

Rosier was silent, studying him for a minute or so, and Draco knew he was considering not just what he said, but what his gift was telling him. Draco thought he had been honest, but who knew what Rosier was reading from him. It was a long minute, and Draco tensed, but eventually Rosier stood up.

"I will speak to the others. We'll consider where we can place you. What was your wand?"

XXX

_ANs: Here we are, back on the usual update schedule, and while I maybe spent the break writing oodles of exchange fic (all of which is now uploaded under Flashes, or, in a nicer fashion, arranged as a series on AO3), the buffer has now been refreshed! Hooray! Most of my exchange fics are fluffier in nature, but those of you enjoying CC (which I hope are most of you) might enjoy there is beauty, which is about Percy, or Blake, which is a what-if featuring an Aldon who was raised by Christie. Those who take the time to do it will have, I guarantee, more to think about in the upcoming chapters!  
_

_Thanks always to beta-reader meek, who does not pull punches (one paragraph of her edits stated "these three paragraphs should not see the light of day"), and to all of you who encourage me to keep writing! Please leave me a comment or review - they are the fuel that keeps me writing! ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

August bled into September. If it wasn't for the leaves slowly turning yellow, then gold, Aldon would hardly have noticed. The days seemed to pass in a blur—there was always something that needed to be done, new reports to decode and read, meetings to attend. That didn't account for things like trying to find a place in their organization for a sullen pureblood that Aldon was fairly certain was possibly the only person on their side less liked than Aldon himself, or coordinating with Sirius to liberate some alchemical materials from the Alchemy Guild with no one the wiser, or trying to study advanced ward construction from textbooks over which he inevitably fell asleep. Or Neal showing up every other day to interrupt him from whatever he was doing for training at Queenscove.

It wasn't that Aldon didn't understand the importance of physical training in the midst of war. It was just that he always seemed to have more urgent things to do, and he wasn't on the front lines anyway. He needed to be able to fight as a matter of emergency, but the war would come to him at Rosier Place, where he would have the full resources of his manor to help him. He didn't intend on being caught outside of his manor, or at all—at this point, considering he was the only one who knew the identities of all of his secret informants, he was the one that could, perhaps, least afford to be captured.

He had already put together multiple fail-safes for his informants. Each of them was code-named, then Lina, between efforts at recruitment, reorganizing the structure of their army and instructing budding commanders, had helped him seal the knowledge into his soul so that he couldn't, even under torture, divulge it. He couldn't even mention their real names anymore, and even thinking about their real names in his head was uncomfortable, the Curse he was under choking him in warning. If they won, he would deal with how to break it later. When he passed information to the others, he used code-names only. Lord Potter thought he was affecting airs and taking his spymaster role a little too seriously, but the fact was that he had gone to significant lengths to prevent himself from being able to identify his informants to _anyone_. It had its problems—he couldn't explain to anyone _why_ Swallow needed to be left in her role, nor could he get much help manufacturing a situation where Vulture could plausibly get rid of the life debt he supposedly owed and earn an even higher position in Voldemort's Ministry. But overall, he considered it better safe than sorry, because it only took one slip from him and one eavesdropper for one or more of his precious spies to be caught and tortured to death.

In a very final sort of move, Aldon had gotten a suicide spell tattooed on one shoulder. If he were ever captured, he had no intention of being of any use to Voldemort. Sirius and Neal both knew about that part, as he had pulled them both aside quietly to show it. Neal's reaction had been a dark glare and an extra two hours of being pummelled in his lists; Sirius' face had taken on a grim cast, but he had listened to Aldon's explanation of his leather notebooks, the blood-wards to which would fall if he died and which included all the information his successor would need to know, with careful attention. Lina and Francesca both knew, if he fell, to secure the books before blowing up and abandoning Rosier Place entirely.

Francesca. On the rare moments he had an extra hour or two, he always stopped into his library, where Blake & Associates were working. They were so far ahead of him now that he knew he would need weeks to catch up on what they had done, but it couldn't be helped. It would probably be more useful to spend those few hours elsewhere, since they had to give him so much background before he could be of any help at all, but he couldn't resist looking into the group anyway.

She was there, at the centre of the knot of researchers, her dark hair piled on the top of her head as she explained the theoretical concepts behind the ACD, or drew diagrams to demonstrate her reasoning, or even as she studied books, taking notes in a pink spiral-bound notebook. She was as well-dressed here, at Rosier Place in the middle of a war, as she was when he had met her a little over a year ago. He felt as though he was stealing sips of wine when he looked at her—he shouldn't, he had a million other things to do, but sometimes he would find a spare moment and he just wanted to come and _look_ at her.

She was here, in his manor, living with him and breathing the same air as him. Darius, clearly the most annoying of his ancestors, had taken to visiting him and giving him updates on what she had done each day, what she was wearing, what she was reading, whether she was happy—Aldon couldn't decide if Darius was trying to torture him or not, and pathetically he always listened anyway even if he told Darius that if he wanted to know he'd go look for her himself. His elves, his paintings, even his manor itself seemed almost too eager to please her—why else would it have opened the grand ballroom for her?

Things had changed, between the two of them. They spoke little—there was none of the easy camaraderie that had existed before the Unity Ball, and Aldon didn't think he even ranked as her friend anymore. They spoke when they had to, when Francesca needed his expertise on a runes or a magical theory matter, when he needed to tell her about yet another defensive spell that he had built into his manor, when he needed to update her on the ongoing war so that she would be able to react effectively if anything happened. He didn't dare think that there was anything more—she had never mentioned the night of the Lower Alleys attack to him again, and a few curious glances here and there at him meant nothing. He wanted to make sure she was comfortable and safe in his home, and that was _all._

Darius didn't believe him, nor did he stop giving him daily updates. The idiot portrait seemed to think he still had a chance, but Darius came from a time and a set of rules that Aldon had already empirically discovered did not work.

He didn't know what _would_ work, but it didn't matter. Aldon was busy. He was _busy, _and he was far too busy to attempt to court anyone, and the most he could do was try to make sure she was comfortable and safe and relatively happy. And when he snuck glances at her, every time he slipped into the library just to breathe the same air as her, just to see her talking, or smiling, or anything, those little glimpses would hold him through another day or two of sorting correspondences, considering risk, and studying wards.

It was late—one in the morning, or maybe two. Aldon was yawning, but there were only three pages left in this chapter of this Ward Construction textbook. It was on complex ward-weaves; beginning ward makers often made the mistake of adding more and more spells into their weaves, thinking that more spells would be harder to break. While it might seem logical that more spells would mean more to break, there was a stability issue as the number of spells increased, and often breaking one spell would lead to a cascade of failures. The way around it was setting up complex ward-weaves, and then spacing the wards slightly over a small area.

He would need to rearrange the Rosier wards, again. It felt as though he was reworking them endlessly, but if it kept Christie, and Blake & Associates, and Francesca safe, then it would be worth it to do it again. And again, and again, as many times as necessary.

There was a flash of silver in the corner of his eye, and Aldon turned to look. A border collie appeared, and Aldon's jaw tightened.

"Falcon, we have a problem," Finch's voice came out, quiet. There was another reason why Aldon kept his sources secret—he didn't only have sources within Voldemort's camp, but also within his allies' camps, and with those that were still formally neutral. Finch gave him information on the remainder of the Light faction unaffiliated with _Bridge_. "I have Seamus Finnegan and his mum here, at House Longbottom. They're not making a lot of sense, but it sounds like—like the Irish revolted. I talked them through what happened—we need to talk."

Aldon stared at Patronus a moment, as the border collie started fading, dissipating. It was a long message, for a Patronus to carry, and Aldon didn't remember where the Longbottom Manor was located. Somewhere in Cornwall, he thought. It didn't matter.

Finch wasn't lying, and Aldon didn't need to see him to know that. Something about his voice, pleading, tipped him off—Finch was tired, and he wasn't sure what to do, so he was reporting.

Aldon put his book down, his hand shaking slightly. He had no direct contact in Ireland, having had no opportunity to meet anyone in Ireland other than their three primary representatives, Saoirse Riordan, Mary Docherty, or Sean Docherty. It had been a problem he was considering on and off, in his non-existent time—finding an Irish person within their organization to pass him information. But he hadn't been able to bring any Irish students at Hogwarts to mind, so he had set it aside for later.

He shouldn't have. He needed more information, and he needed it _now_. He pulled out his wand, struggling to cast his own Patronus. It took him three tries before his faded merlin came into view, tilting its head at him. "Message received. Meet outside Leaky Cauldron, Muggle entrance, thirty minutes. Don't wear robes."

He stalked out of his rooms, heading down to Lina's rooms. Lina had always been a light sleeper, and he was sure that even if she had long since gone to bed, he could wake her. He had to wake her—he could not go out without letting someone know, because if anything happened, security measures had to be taken.

It only took a few minutes of pounding at her door for Lina to crack it open, her expression one of wary exhaustion. She glanced at him, and her eyes narrowed. "Aldon. What is it?"

"I need to go meet a contact," he replied, brushing his hair out of his face. Even with the new adrenaline coursing through his body, he was tired, a slow ache underlying sharp awareness. "Something happened—it appears that the Irish have revolted."

"Revolted?" Lina's eyes sharpened, and she leaned in the frame of her doorway. "Revolted how? Did they betray us, or is it something else?"

"I don't know." Aldon shook his head. Certainly, they had acted without informing Archie, or any of their other allies—Aldon would likely have hard about it, otherwise—but it sounded like they had acted against the Ministry, a common enemy. "I don't have enough information yet. I'm going to meet with Finch and find out what he knows."

Lina looked away from him, thinking. "Fine," she snapped. "I want Patronuses every half-hour from you, confirming your safety."

"I'll be in Muggle London," Aldon replied, shaking his head. "I don't know that I'll be able to. Give me two hours—I'll be in the vicinity of the Leaky Cauldron."

Lina didn't look very impressed with his answer, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't have any other response. They needed the information, and if that meant Aldon had to go meet a contact in person, that's what it meant. And if the Irish had betrayed them, they had to know.

"Take your gun and knife," Lina said finally. "And use them if you need to. Two hours, Aldon. Be back here in two hours, or I'm going to track you from the Leaky Cauldron."

Aldon nodded, stiff, and headed back to his rooms to get ready.

There was an empty bench across the street from the Leaky Cauldron, which was open all hours. He had no intention of meeting within the Leaky Cauldron, however—it was just too risky. There had to be a pub, café, or diner open at this hour. He settled down to wait.

The cold of the metal bench sank through his trousers. There was a breeze—it was cold, colder than Aldon had expected. He looked around warily, scanning the streets. This far downtown, it was never truly quiet, and he heard drunken laughter and singing echoing down the street from the local pub. A couple staggered past him towards Leicester Square Station, likely heading home after a very late-night drink. There were a lot of theatres around here, Aldon remembered. That was good, because it was less likely that he would be jumped here. Muggle muggers were a possibility, but he was more worried about the Ministry.

A nightclub would probably be the safest place for them to talk, but as a true pureblood, Finch wouldn't have any Muggle identification. Aldon, surprisingly, did—he had in fact been born in a Muggle hospital, his birth certificate held by Christie, so obtaining proper identification had been only a matter of tedious paperwork. They'd never get into one, or at least not without questions. Even if Finch had ID, however, no one would ever believe he was of age. Incredulity led to questions, and questions increased the likelihood they would be remembered.

Instead, Aldon thought towards Chinatown. There was always something open in Chinatown, though they wouldn't have an unending pot of coffee. Tea, yes, but not coffee. On the other hand, it was close, it was busy, and he doubted anyone would expect that he would be meeting with anyone in a slightly seedy Muggle Chinese restaurant at three in the morning.

Finch was late, slipping out of the Leaky Cauldron fifteen minutes after the ordered time. He was out of breath, panting in what looked like old-fashioned pyjamas with an old trench coat on top. Having lived in the Muggle world for a year now, Aldon could recognize how odd magical clothing must look to Muggles. The pyjamas and long coat were, admittedly, among the better clothing he could have picked—he only looked like he had been rustled out of bed quickly, which matched his expression as he glanced both ways and dashed across the street towards Aldon.

"Sorry, I'm late," he said, leaning over to catch his breath. "I had to wait for my parents to fall asleep—they turned in when I sent my message, but they were moving around a lot, and I didn't want to take the risk."

Aldon nodded—the explanation rang as true. "Let's go somewhere a little more comfortable. Come, and keep your wits about you."

It took him about fifteen minutes to find an open restaurant, and only a few minutes to be directed to a booth with a pot of tea and two plates of dumplings on the table in front of them.

"So?" Aldon prodded, pouring Finch a tiny cup of tea.

Finch shook his head. "Sorry. I was thinking about where to begin. Seamus and his mum showed up on our doorsteps around ten tonight—they didn't look good, Aldon. They're exhausted and terrified, and Seamus looks like—looks like he's just gone through something awful. We let them in, of course, brought them dinner and everything, and I talked to Seamus about it while Grandmother talked to his mum."

Aldon nodded slowly, listening. One of the things that made Finch a surprisingly good spy was that simply no one expected him to be one. He was open and friendly but had struggled at Hogwarts, enough that people thought he was harmless and a little incompetent. "What did Seamus have to say?"

"The _Tuatha D__é_ and the Free Irish struck yesterday—a full rebellion, the kind that hasn't been seen in decades. Or, it could have been a few days, they didn't—Seamus and his family are from around Dublin, so they didn't know. The—the rebels took control of the Ministry offices, tracked down major families, took them hostage or murdered them. Floo lines are cut, so Seamus and his family didn't know anything about it. His dad bought them time to run, and they got a Portkey to the mainland." Finch paused, looking down at his chopsticks with a frown before giving up and picking up a dumpling with his fingers. "Grandmother is calling the DMLE about it."

"That's not good," Aldon muttered, trying to think it through. His mind wasn't very sharp, anymore—the half-hour he had been sitting, waiting, then walking had taken the edge off his adrenaline. He reached for a dumpling with his chopsticks. "This will be all over the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow, and as a _Bridge_ ally, we're going to be guilty by association. We need a response, and we need a response fast. I don't know—what were they thinking?"

Finch shook his head. "I don't know. But Seamus said—Ireland has never been very stable. The _Tuatha D__é_, the Free Irish—they're known terrorists."

"Not helpful." Aldon shut his eyes, trying to think. An Irish revolt, even if they had acted against a common enemy, put _Bridge _as their putative allies in a terrible position. "I need more information. What else is your grandmother planning on doing?"

"I don't know for sure—it's not as though I have a voice, though, you know?" Finch shrugged uncomfortably, dipping a dumpling in sauce and popping it into his mouth. "Grandmother doesn't consult with me. I think we'll host the Finnegans for awhile, though, so I'll keep my ears open and try to talk to Seamus a bit more."

"That will have to do." Aldon sighed, rubbing his eyes and picking up a second dumpling. "Letters, as much as possible. In code. Keep me informed, and no names."

Finch nodded, and Aldon let him finish off most of the dumplings. He looked as exhausted as Aldon felt, and Aldon was too busy trying to think of an answer, _any_ answer to the inevitable _Daily Prophet_ challenge. What could they say? That they hadn't known, or that they had been betrayed? But with the loss at Malfoy Manor, Irish support was more important than ever—they had the largest semi-trained fighting force left, other than the Ministry itself.

But if the Irish had turned, then that hardly mattered, did it?

He made it home just before Lina's two-hour deadline. She was waiting in the main reception room in the family quarters, with a mug of coffee in her hands, staring at a fire she had started in the main grill.

"The Irish revolted," Aldon began, keeping his words short. "Finch didn't know a lot. They apparently took control of the Ministry offices, then started attacking specific families like the Finnegans."

"Seamus Finnegan was at school with you," Lina murmured, leaning forward. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes." Aldon frowned. "But I did not know him, if that is what you mean."

"No, not that." Lina looked up at him, brown eyes serious. "The only Irish permitted to attend Hogwarts are those from families that have demonstrated loyalty to the Ministry. Usually, that means working for the Ministry, or doing something else to prove their loyalty. In the Finnegans' case, Mara Finnegan turned in two Irish-speaking families to the Ministry for execution: the Malloys and the O'Deas."

Aldon blinked. He hadn't known that. "I didn't know."

"The Ministry kept it out of the _Daily Prophet_, as much as possible." Lina raised her mug to her lips, grim. "Daniel Malloy's brother, Darryl, was a Stormwing. I worked with him a few times as a mercenary. He died about five years ago on a mission in Eastern Europe, but he was _Tuatha D__é_. It's more consistent of what I know of them that they revolted against the _Ministry_, not us. We were just—a convenient distraction. With us as an alternative force, they can finally break free of British rule."

"I didn't know," Aldon repeated, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. He looked away. "I was the one who ordered that almost all the Irish Floo points be removed. I don't know how we spin this. How do we spin this?"

Lina studied him for a moment. "I don't know that we can, Aldon. Ideally, we come to an agreement with the Irish, and we make it as though this was planned. This is not entirely a bad thing, Aldon—in fact, this might be a good opportunity for us. The Irish acting independently splits the Ministry's attention, so they'll have fewer resources to come down on us. But we'll need to speak to the Irish as soon as possible. Send an owl to them now, and I'll send a Patronus to Docherty and to the Lord Black. We need a meeting with both them, and with Black and his group, as soon as possible."

"We're going to be behind the narrative," Aldon warned. "_Daily Prophet_ will have this by tomorrow. My contact says a report was made to DMLE. They're going to be blaming us alongside the Irish tomorrow morning."

"We don't have a choice." Lina sighed, throwing back the rest of her mug of coffee. "But our publishing schedule works in our favour. If we need to, we'll say investigations are ongoing and sell it as responsible reporting."

It wasn't ideal, but Aldon nodded. Basic steps, he could do those.

The _Daily Prophet _was, as expected, lurid in its condemnation of the Irish rebellion and the presumed association of _Bridge_. _Bridge_ was an association out to destroy Wizarding Britain as they knew it, a terrorist organization with no legitimacy, and it was because of them that their nation was shattering beneath them. The Irish had been an intrinsic part of Wizarding Britain for four hundred years, but with the internal support of _Bridge, _a fringe association had finally succeeded in mounting a major attack. The Ministry of Magic would be initiating a counterstrike against the Irish groups as soon as possible and would bring the perpetrators to justice.

The _Irish Gales _told a very different story. Saoirse Riordan stared out from the front page, seated in front of a glowing stone, while Sean Docherty held a spear beside her. An unknown woman, which the caption identified as Aoife Quinn, held what appeared to be a goblet in her hands; a man, marked as Eamon Haverty, carried a blazing sword. The article below announced a new dawn for Wizarding Ireland.

_We, the Tuatha D__é__ and the Free Irish, are proud to announce that we have finally succeeded in throwing off the rule of Wizarding Britain. As of this morning, September 3, 1996, a company of our people succeeded in taking the Ministry of Magic offices in Dublin, the final stronghold of our oppressors. No more will we fear speaking our language in the open, and no more will we hide our traditional ways and heritage. We will not submit again to foreign tyranny; not so long as our four Treasures, long hidden from us, hold true. _

_In the coming weeks, we will begin consultations for the new government of Wizarding Ireland. All Irish mages are welcome to attend the open consultations, whether documented or undocumented, newblood, halfblood, or pureblood. These are differences that mean nothing to us, as we begin anew in creating our modern Irish state._

Below, there was a list of cities and dates for public consultations, a carefully planned tour that included every major Irish city and quite a few minor ones. Aldon thought it was _stupidly _overconfident of them, but when Lina saw it, left on the table in the family quarters dining room, she only shook her head.

"Did you never read traditional Irish mythology?" she asked, slightly scornful. "Riordan is sitting in front of the Lia Fáil—the fact that it's glowing means she's a direct descendant of the former kings of Ireland. Docherty, beside her, is holding the Spear of Lugh—no battle was ever sustained against it or against the man who held it. Quinn there is holding Dagda's Cauldron, from which no company ever went unsatisfied, while Haverty has Nùada's Sword, from which none have escaped once drawn. If the Irish have truly secured the Four Treasures, it will be very difficult for the Ministry to re-establish control over the country."

Aldon glanced down at the paper. "You are not upset."

"No." Lina took a seat at the table, reaching for the spelled carafe of coffee that the house-elves always left out for them. "The Ministry of Magic has not treated the Irish well, and they were never successfully integrated. Muggle Ireland has been independent from Muggle Britain for almost eighty years, and we are not so independent from our Muggle neighbours as we would like to believe. It is unusual for Wizarding borders not to follow Muggle ones, because the cultural instability underlying the borders often weighs more than magic. That was a part of what Lord Riddle and Voldemort fought so strongly against with the blood discrimination laws. They were limiting the effect of Muggle culture on Wizarding culture."

Aldon stared at her, not sure whether to believe her. "Films and books?"

"New ideas." Lina took a sip of her coffee. "Including ideas about our identity, about who we are as people, about humanity. You should read more, Aldon, and not just magical theory and warding textbooks."

It was two days before they managed to secure a meeting with the Irish. Considering that Riordan wouldn't respond to his owls or Patronus, it had taken Archie's direct involvement to convince Riordan and her allies to even attend for one meeting at Grimmauld Place. Her answer had said _one meeting only_, so it would only be Archie, the Lord Black, Hermione and Aldon himself there. Even Aldon had been a push, allowed only because Archie had insisted that he be there and only on the promise of his best behaviour. Aldon's commentary throughout the first round the negotiations had not been appreciated, apparently, though he had seen Riordan snickering at his words on more than one occasion.

Grimmauld Place, when he arrived, was tense. Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table already, while the Lord Black was setting out both a clear pitcher of water and a steaming teapot decorated with small irises. Someone had to have Confunded the Ministry surveillance operatives on Grimmauld Place, Aldon had guessed, or found another way to be rid of them temporarily.

"Remember," Hermione started, glancing at him as he followed Archie into the kitchen. "No snarky comments."

"You've said." Aldon retorted, settling into an empty seat at the table. "I'm here to listen, but to leave the interaction to you and Archie. I _can_ follow directions, Hermione."

She shot him a skeptical look but didn't reply. Instead, they sat in silence, waiting.

The Irish were five minutes late, but as Riordan and Docherty walked into the kitchen, Aldon thought it was intentional. It was a symbol of their power, their ability to make Archie and the rest of them wait. Compared to how Aldon remembered them, defiant, reckless and angry, they carried themselves very differently; there was a pride about them now, and a grim determination. They had fought for something, they had won it, and they were not willing to give it up.

"You asked for a meeting," Riordan began, her voice cool. "In recognition of the fair and equal treatment and assistance you have provided us thus far, you have it."

Archie smiled, friendly, and reached to pour them tea. "And we appreciate it, believe us. Where is Mary? I expected her to come with you."

"My mum fell when we took Belfast," Sean replied, expressionless. "I am the interim spokesperson for the Free Irish."

Archie grimaced. "I'm so sorry to hear that. My condolences."

Sean shrugged. "It was for a good cause, one that she believed in. I couldn't ask for a better death for her."

"Let's talk about that, Saoirse, Sean." Archie leaned forward. "What happened, in Ireland? I thought we were allies."

For all that the question was serious, for all that he and Aldon, the Lord Black and Lord Potter and half of _Bridge_ had spun their wheels on these questions for days, Archie only sounded curious. Archie was a hell of an actor, Aldon thought; he could not have pulled off this performance. If his gift wasn't ringing, he might have accepted the kind, non-judgemental tone.

"A better question is, what _has _happened?" Saoirse smiled, her blue eyes shining brightly. "The culmination of decades of planning and an opportune moment, and we took back our homeland. We do thank you for providing the distraction, as well as for removing ninety percent of our Floo access points. It was very helpful that the Ministry could not call for external assistance."

Aldon swallowed his sharp reply, looking towards Archie. Archie was in control of this discussion, and he was the one that they knew Riordan and Docherty trusted the most.

"But what happens now?" Archie pressed. "We had an agreement, Saoirse. Flouting the agreement, going off on your own—that's not something we expected. Where do we go from here? Where do _you_ go from here?"

Saoirse looked at Sean, who only nodded. She glanced around the table, eyeing the Aldon and the Lord Black particularly closely. "Where does _Ireland_ go from here? That was announced in the _Irish Gales_. Ireland is independent, and we will not submit again to your authority. We have consultations planned throughout Ireland—but that is none of your concern."

"You _cannot_ expect that to go well," the Lord Black interjected, frowning furiously. "What about the British who live in Ireland? Ministry employees, or families like the Finnegans? And what about schooling, or Healing support, or representation at the ICW? Or taxation for your new state, even. You've never run a state before, and pushing for your independence was a part of our treaty!"

There was a moment of silence.

"You were an Auror once. Your friend, the Lord Potter, was Head Auror." Saoirse said, and the chill that emanated from her voice was nearly physical. A light breeze swept through the room—almost like Neal's wind, but Aldon didn't think she was controlling it. The designs on her dress were glittering, glowing, and Aldon remembered what Cedric had said to him once.

In traditional magic, the elements sometimes simply _liked_ one person more than others. They weren't entirely controlled, and while Cedric could beg for assistance, he didn't always know what form that assistance would arrive in. Saoirse Riordan was not powerful by the usual, core-based standards used by most of the world, but she was incredibly powerful by traditional measures. At seventeen, she was already the High Priestess of the _Tuatha D__é__._

"Do you realize what your Aurors have done throughout Ireland? Do you know how many Irish mages your Aurors hunted down, captured, and hung because we dared to keep to our traditional ways? Did the Lord Potter know about that, or did he merely sign off on our execution warrants without thinking?" Her anger was palpable, running through the room in a wild, electric current. "Even with the fall of Wizarding Britain, even in asking for our assistance, you still called us terrorists. We had no reason to trust you, nor in your empty promises of promoting Irish independence after your war is over."

Sean reached out, touching Saoirse on the arm to calm her down. "You have to understand, this is a deeply personal issue for the both of us—we've both lost family and close friends over the years. Lord Black, we aren't ignorant of the problems of setting up an independent nation; but to be fair, Britain has never provided us with much in the way of support. Less than thirty percent of Irish mages were trained at Hogwarts over the last forty years, and we never had access to a lot of the services that you take for granted. We have learned self-sufficiency. We'd like to come to terms on Hogwarts and other issues, but if we can't, we'll manage. As for the British living in Ireland, we will be kinder than you have been. They will be given the option of swearing loyalty to the Irish state, or of repatriation back to Britain."

"Terms," Hermione interrupted, grabbing onto the word and clinging to it like a lifeline. "There terms that you would be willing to come to, then?"

Sean and Saoirse exchanged another long look.

"We'd consider it," Sean started, his voice carefully measured. "What are you offering?"

Hermione didn't look at Archie, or at Aldon. "A public statement in _Bridge_ respecting your independence."

"Weak, Hermione." Saoirse laughed. "You can do better than that."

"What would _you _be willing to offer?" Hermione's voice was a challenge. "Obviously, you won't be keeping to our last treaty, and we can hardly offer a fair deal if we don't know what you're still willing to offer."

Saoirse tilted her head, then she smiled. "I like you, Hermione—always have. Ireland will continue to hold its borders against Voldemort. Any strike on our territory will be handled as a reconquest attempt. We're also still willing to take in refugees with ICW support."

"That isn't much." The Lord Black's face was stern.

"On the contrary, it's quite a lot for Ireland to offer." Saoirse shook her head, turning to face the Lord Black. "We are an independent nation, Lord Black. There is no reason for us to be involved in your civil war, and no other state is promising so much."

"And unlike other states, Voldemort intends on striking back at Ireland. By holding our own, we're splitting their forces for you." Sean looked around the table. "We _don't _expect you to come to our aid for any strikes on Ireland. We never did."

"All right. What do you _want_ for this aid?" Archie pressed, a light smile flickering across his face as he shot his father a warning look. "We can't negotiate in vacuum. I don't know if I can make any promises, but I'll at least hear you out."

"You have always done that," Saoirse said agreeably. "I like that about you. We want public statements in support of Irish independence from both _Bridge_ and the _BIA_. We further want support at the International Confederation of Wizards for recognition, and a magically binding oath from your generals—not just you, Archie, but the Lord Potter, the Lord Dumbledore, the Lord Rosier over there, the Lord Black, and any person with a direct control over your side of the war—that you will not seek Irish reconquest, nor will you lead or encourage others to pursue Irish reconquest. And we'd like an extradition treaty by which criminals, such as Mara Finnegan, are returned to face Irish justice."

There was a pause, but Aldon was already mentally taking notes. They couldn't agree to this—if the Irish wanted independence, they would be fighting against Voldemort anyway. Promising something that they would already have had to do was not an offer, and the only real offer on the table was increased refugee assistance, which they likely would have had to agree to anyway for an application for recognition in front of the ICW. He caught Archie's eye and made a small motion with his hand to cut off the negotiation.

"Saw that, Lord Rosier." Saiorse smirked. "Not very subtle."

Aldon sighed, turning to face her. "My apologies. But you're not bargaining in good faith, Lady Riordan. You would need to fight against Voldemort anyway to protect your newly claimed sovereignty, and you can hardly do otherwise than offer refugee assistance when doing so would be, in light of the decrees of the International Confederation of Wizards, a requirement of membership in any case. You're not offering anything in exchange for your demands."

"But an alliance between the two of us is still in your best interests, isn't it?" A smile flickered over Saiorse's face. "You and your treaty allies have to say _something_ about us, since we were included on your initial statement against Voldemort. You might as well take the alliance, and if you win, come out with a friendly neighbour. We know you don't have the forces on your own to launch your own strikes against Ireland—why not accept Irish independence as the new reality, especially if you were going to support it anyway?"

Aldon pressed his lips together tightly, not having a response. The Irish had them over a barrel, and they knew it, but neither could they simply walk away. He looked over at Archie, who didn't look any happier than Aldon did, though Hermione was more considering.

"You knew we couldn't promise any of your demands, Saoirse," Archie said, sounding very final. "Just like you know I'm going to have to go back to the rest of our allies on this. This is a _fundamental_ change to our agreement."

"Agreement or not, all that weighs is whether Ireland takes more refugees off your hands. Without ICW support, we can't take any more than what we already have, not if we're holding Voldemort off our shores." Saoirse turned to Sean. "Well, I think that accounts for everything, doesn't it? We've said everything we wanted, and we have a nation to build."

Sean nodded, rising from the table. "I think it does. We'll be watching _Bridge_, and the reports of the ICW. Archie, Hermione. Lord Black, Lord Rosier."

They left together, leaving a vacuum of silence after them.

"Well," the Lord Black said, looking like he had tasted something very sour. "We can't agree to it—they already broke their word once. There's no guarantee they would keep to any deal. A Britain without Ireland is—"

He fell silent, shaking his head. Shock, disapproval, or something else, Aldon didn't know.

"I don't think it's a question of agreement." Hermione eyebrows were narrowed in thought. "Muggle Ireland is not a part of Britain, except for Northern Ireland, so I'm not tied to the idea that we must remain one cohesive whole. The BIA is the same, and we have a large Irish contingent supportive of Irish independence. We would have to be neutral."

"They weren't here to come to an agreement," Aldon added, without looking at Hermione. He knew he was echoing her, but he didn't have to like it. "They were here to state their position and to see how we responded. We cannot look at this as an exchange. Our interests do align with Irish ones; it is to our benefit that they provide a distraction to Voldemort."

"And, I mean…" Archie sighed. "We were willing to promise steps towards Irish and Scottish independence before. If we turn around and say otherwise, we'll be telling the others that we're willing to renege on our promises, and we need the Scottish, Welsh and shifter support more than ever."

"But if we just fold, that tells the others they can go ahead and break the treaty without consequences." The Lord Black shook his head firmly. "That's not acceptable."

"What if we're just… _honest?"_ Archie asked, looking around the table. His eyes were wide, earnest. "No, hear me out. Yeah, the Irish did something unexpected. We don't approve of what they did, or how they chose to do it, and we express disappointment that they felt like they couldn't trust us to abide by the treaty and put forward referendums on Irish independence at the end of the war. Then, we acknowledge their sovereignty, because doing anything else makes us look like we're hypocrites. It is what it is—let's not cover it up."

Aldon's first instinct was to recoil. His instinct was to put them in a position of power—find a way to spin it that made them look better, like they had predicted this, or even that it was jointly planned. It sounded weak to say that they had been taken by surprise, that they didn't know.

But it wasn't worse than any of the other options, and it was a very _Archie_ kind of answer. He didn't have any other real ideas, or at least not any that could be acted on, and they needed a response as soon as possible.

"It'll have to be very carefully drafted," Hermione said finally, brushing her bushy hair out of the way with a sigh. "Ideally, we should also have some history in it—something to explain why Irish independence is so important to them and try to promote some understanding among our readers, but I don't know. It would have to be someone neutral, someone whose credentials are above-board, with unimpeachable character. Preferably someone well known."

"Lord Dumbledore?" The Lord Black suggested, and Aldon grimaced. "What, do you have another suggestion, Aldon?"

"Lord Dumbledore is not generally considered to be neutral." Aldon looked away. "The Irish certainly would not think he is neutral, since he is a part of the government that they view as having oppressed them. That's an awful idea. Further, with Hogwarts being open, the Lord Dumbledore does need to maintain the image of neutrality."

"He still might be able to suggest someone, though," the Lord Black snapped. "Unless you have any better ideas."

Aldon did not have any better ideas, and he only shook his head, looking away.

There was a moment of silence, before Archie broke in. "Let's ask Lord Dumbledore if he knows anyone, then. A wizarding historian, maybe. Hermione, can you help me with the _Bridge_ statement?"

The article that came out, three days later, was as balanced and honest as Archie had promised. The first section was only a confirmation of what had happened, including relevant dates and description of the official takeover of Wizarding Ireland by the Irish. The next section was Archie, on behalf of _Bridge_, expressing his disappointment that the Irish had taken matters into their own hands rather than trusting their allies to hold to the treaty. The last section was the most complicated, simultaneously acknowledging Irish sovereignty as the new reality, while still expressing disapproval of their methods. Aldon suspected that much of that section had been written by Hermione; it was too nuanced to have been written by Archie.

On page three, there was a brief, dry-as-dust analysis on the root causes of the Irish independence movement penned by Bathilda Bagshot, the noted wizarding historian living in Godric's Hollow. Aldon read her article in more depth than the Archie's statement; most of the information in the article was new to him. The Irish were conquered in 1601, and laws were quickly passed to limit their political, social, and magical power. Traditional spell-casting was banned in favour of wand use, and all Irish witches and wizards were initially required to school at Hogwarts. The Irish had fought bitterly, rebelling at least once every half century throughout British rule, and only in the last fifty years had things changed—and for the worse. After the passage of the blood discrimination laws, most Irish witches and wizards found that they were denied status, and formally deprived of both education and job opportunities. As Irish witches and wizards were excluded from Wizarding Britain, their bonds tightened with their already independent Muggle counterparts, with the result that the political situation had become increasingly unstable over the last decades.

The article was dull, boring and nearly sleep-inducing, but it painted Irish independence as almost an inevitability, which Aldon thought might have been one of the most useful things for their alliance. They needed to move past the Irish revolt; while Voldemort being distracted by the new country on his doorstep was certainly to his benefit, any debate on the issue within _Bridge_ would likely fracture their already patchy alliance.

With their summer losses, they needed to retreat and fortify. Ideally, they needed more forces—Aldon was hopeful that they would have more volunteers, once Voldemort showed his true colours. All Aldon's reports from within the Ministry indicated that Voldemort was unstable, a megalomaniac intent on enforcing his rule. In the meantime, the strategy was to focus on softer, somewhat less-grand methods of warfare: propaganda, minor guerilla strikes, and politics. _Bridge_ was still encouraging resistance to the new government, while the Lord Black was identifying the likeliest supply chains to attack for maximum benefit. They had raided two shipments already, one for potions ingredients and the other for alchemical materials that Aldon needed, and Aldon trusted that there would be more. The Lord Potter, with Lina and Moody's help, had reorganized their forces into new, smaller combat units, and they were in the process of assessing every witch or wizard's skills and organizing a new training program for recruits. Archie and Hermione had put together a Healing protocol for every safehouse and a brief "first aid" Healing course, and were busy ensuring that every safehouse complied with their often-idealistic strictures. In their spare time, or maybe it was just for their own amusement, Lina and Moody had taken to sending Muggle letter bombs to the Ministry of Magic.

There were two more Stormwings in residence at Rosier Place, and another two at Queenscove. Lina would have preferred to spread them out more, but there just weren't enough of them and most of their allies were decidedly wary about having unknown, trained warmages in their manors. Three of the Stormwings were only trainees, on their Service Year, but Benjamin Levstein, called _Faith,_ was newly returned from Wizarding Colombia. Levstein and one of the trainees, a surprisingly cheerful woman named Rosalie Silberman, took station at Queenscove, while Aldon took in the other two trainees, a man named Jukka Savinainen and a woman, Jelena Acimović. Neither spoke much, preferring to keep to themselves, but they fell into the rhythm of Rosier Place easily.

Despite much effort, it seemed that the alternate Floo network was more difficult, more expensive, and more complicated to construct than a series of new Portkey Hubs. Practically speaking, Albert's Mastery in Charms had been in mass-transit Portkeys, so the knowledge was already there. The required materials, being primarily silver wire that would be magically worked into a ring, were also easier to obtain than the rare magical ingredients that seemed to be required for an alternative Floo. The Lord Black's raid hadn't yielded the alchemical materials that Christie thought were needed for a new Floo network, only a lot of silver that could be shaped into wire, and it seemed that the materials needed for a Floo were even rarer than Aldon had suspected. Even the Alchemy Guild, it seemed, only made an order for those materials once every few years. And that was assuming that Christie had successfully identified all the components she needed, and if they were able to reverse-engineer the Floo system at all. They could order the materials, but it would take months to arrive, and ordering rare materials was something easily tracked.

Time was also of the essence. Apparition was risky, with all of their houses under Ministry surveillance, and while it was relatively easy for those at the larger manor homes, such as Rosier Place or Queenscove, to find alternate Apparition points and give Ministry officials the slip, it was far more dangerous than it had to be. A Portkey Hub system could be constructed now, whereas an alternate Floo Network would take months in obtaining supplies and reverse engineering.

Aldon's personal fascination with a Portkey Hub system didn't figure into it. He had always liked Charms, it was true, but from what Blake & Associates said, Portkey Hubs were _de_ _rigueur_ outside of Britain. The fact that he hadn't seen one before, and that he was interested in how Charms and Runes worked together in group spell-casting to create each Hub, that had nothing to do with their decision to proceed with the Portkey Hub system over an alternate Floo. Or, if it did, it was only because if he hadn't seen one, he could hope that Voldemort and his followers would have no idea what to do with one.

As was becoming normal for Aldon's slightly more experimental ideas, it was Rosier Place and Queenscove that prepared the first two Hubs. It took eight of them—the entire Blake & Associates team, Aldon, Neal and his best friend, Keladry Mindelan, two full days to set up the two Hubs. They were fully exhausted at the end of each day, but the Hubs were functional, six tests proving fast, effective and safe transit between Rosier Place and Queenscove.

After that, a Hub was set up at Grimmauld Place, then Potter Place, and then the entire Blake & Associates team was snuck into Hogwarts on one quiet weekend at the end of September to place a Hub in something that the Lord Dumbledore referred to as the Room of Hidden Things. Then the Scottish Clanhomes were added, and the shifter Warren, and a half-dozen other secure locations in ally territory.

It was a slow effort, but one done with increasing tension each time. Secure internal transportation was critical, and they rushed to finish each Portkey Hub as quickly and efficiently as possible. Every moment felt like waiting: for the next announcement, the next action, the next attack.

Instead, there was nothing.

XXX

Pandora lounged on the soft armchair at the head of the room, her head nestled in the corner between the puffy arm and back, her legs draped over the other arm, a book resting casually on her lap. Her hair was left down, and her robes were new, made of a flowing material that she found she liked very much. It felt slightly rough against her skin, almost papery, but it draped in a very appealing way.

It was a most unladylike position, and that was what Pandora loved about it. She was _lounging, _relaxing, in an extremely public way that would have been met by disapproval in her old world, but no one in this room dared to comment. Not when she enjoyed the favour of Voldemort himself.

Bellatrix Lestrange was very jealous of her. Fortunately, Bellatrix was also insane, and her pathetic attempts to regain Voldemort's attentions were laughable. The neckline of her robes had deepened, showing more cleavage, and their cut became tighter, clinging to her form.

Pandora wasn't concerned. It was vulgar, it was crass, it was the lowest form of desperation for a man's attention. Voldemort wouldn't fall for it, especially not for a hag old enough to be his mother.

It also showed how little Bellatrix paid attention to Voldemort. Despite his revolutionary words, Pandora suspected that Voldemort tended to social conservatism—he hated the world that was, but she thought that was more a factor of his _personal _exclusion from power, rather than any true desire for change. The man simply wanted power, and he wasn't especially concerned about how he got it. This was all patently obvious by the way that he was willing to change lines and strategies if he thought it would put him in a better position of control. That was all Voldemort really wanted: power, and control.

But Voldemort _personally_, Pandora thought was likely quite conservative. He had certainly cast a disapproving eye on some of Bellatrix's more extreme clothing choices over the last few months, and he was a pureblood supremacist of the kind on which the modern Wizarding Britain had been founded. Based on the words he sometimes chose to use, or the way he structured his speech, she often thought that Voldemort sounded like a person much older than he really was—as if he were in truth her grandfather's age, with merely the appearance of an eighteen-year-old. It was quaint, and she found it rather charming, as long as he didn't attempt to hold her, as a woman, to any of the other social expectations of the time.

They had that in common, she thought. Neither she nor Voldemort held much with social expectations. They were a tool for control, but that was all.

The sound of screaming, coming from the floor in front of her, didn't bother her in the least. It was Dawlish, and not for the first time this month. Voldemort had been furious after the Irish rebellion, and Dawlish had been possibly the most ineffective person ever in regaining control over the territory. He had tried mass Apparition onto the island twice, both strikes having been met with dismal failure. Both times, the Irish had identified the massing location, and routed them before they were ready—Apparition to the island, over open water, required substantial power. While it was a feat of which most witches and wizards were capable, it was magically exhausting, and both times they were found before they had recovered enough to fight.

Jan Zajac and Aydin Ozturk, their hired warmages, had recommended ships. An ocean away, the entire island of Ireland was enemy territory. Their Aurors needed a safe place where they could aggregate and fortify, that they could fall back to and defend if necessary, and they didn't have one. The _Tuatha D__é _and the Free Irish had been too thorough in expelling, arresting, or killing any Ministry officials and their families for any possible safe territory within Ireland itself.

Voldemort might have considered ships, but the problem was that the Ministry didn't have any. Ireland had been a part of Wizarding Britain for so long that they had always relied on _magical_ methods of transportation: Floo, Apparition, Portkeys. The cost of obtaining any ships, particularly non-magical ones that wouldn't disappear within a few days, was prohibitive, building ships whether magical or non-magical was time-consuming, and she rather thought that Voldemort considered ships rather _plebeian, _not appropriate for a _magical war_.

Pandora could probably convince him otherwise, and ships could probably be obtained, but she didn't care. Who cared whether Ireland was a part of Wizarding Britain? It wasn't as if there were any real advantage to having the island be a part of their nation—while there were magical ingredients on the island that could not be found elsewhere, none of them were critical to the Wizarding British economy. No, the main reason why people were so insistent that the Irish could not simply leave was emotional. There were many British families who had moved to Ireland in the past four hundred years, or there were families that were now separated by a border. Ireland was supposed to be _theirs_, and a hundred Ministry-loyal families had now been displaced.

Fewer than Pandora had expected, if truth be told. She imagined that, between the concerns swirling around Voldemort's new government, and the one formed by the _Tuatha D__é _and the Free Irish, many families had preferred to take their chances in Ireland. And if they wanted to stay there, as far as Pandora was concerned, let them. It wasn't as if they brought much to Wizarding Britain.

She looked over at the scene in front of her, casting a lazy eye over the proceedings. Voldemort was standing, his own robes well-pressed—he cut a very handsome figure, she thought. He was tall and lean, without being thin or slender. His shoulders filled out his robes very nicely, and he carried himself with a cold confidence that she found very attractive.

He rarely smiled, but occasionally Pandora would win one from him. That was more than anyone else in his group. Bellatrix received a mixture of clearly manipulative praise and annoyance, which was clearly meant to control her, while he treated the younger Lestrange, Caelum, with a cautious respect as he kept many of the wilder elements of Voldemort's followers, including his own mother, in line. Dawlish, Voldemort appreciated for his firm grasp of the Ministry and Ministry affairs.

Or rather, he had done. The younger Lestrange was working Dawlish over well, even without the use of the Cruciatus Curse. The Auror was on the tile floor, bare from his waist up, and Pandora could clearly see the criss-cross pattern of the Whip Curse marking his back. The floor was slick with blood, and yet neither Caelum nor Voldemort had a speck of it on them.

Caelum hadn't gotten to breaking bones, and Pandora didn't think he would. Voldemort did not want Dawlish dead, or so injured that he could not function. Voldemort wanted a public punishment, and nothing more. Dawlish would be in pain, but he would walk from Malfoy Manor with a fresh motivation to produce some results. Or he would run, and Travers or Mulciber would have a good time hunting him down like an animal.

She turned back to her book, a wizarding history that she had found in the Malfoy Manor library. Their library had far too many histories for her liking—who cared about history, when it was being made around them? But histories did tell her more about people, and how people reacted, and that was useful for her to know.

"Pandora, darling?" she heard, and she looked up. Voldemort was not classically handsome. His nose and jawline were a little strong, but she found she quite liked it. His eyes, dark blue, were always piercing and sharp.

"Hmm?"

"Your opinion."

"My opinion on what?"

"The Irish problem." Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He did not like repeating himself, Pandora had learned, but she wasn't one to hang on any person's words. "Our next steps on Ireland. Dawlish is clearly inadequate for the job."

"You have had my opinion for weeks now." Pandora looked away, turning back to her book. "I think we are throwing too many resources at it—far more than the Irish warrant. Our losses are more than the island was worth in the first place."

"At the same time, this is not an action that we can let stand." Voldemort's voice held a hint of anger, but she wasn't worried. Voldemort had never turned Lestrange's wand at her—she had more to worry about with Bellatrix's random back-corridors attacks than she did from either Voldemort or the younger Lestrange. "We will look weak, letting this go."

"I never said we should let it go." Pandora looked up, the smallest glimmer of a smile coming across her lips. "There are many options to strike back, right here in Britain, at weaker targets. You can have your example, without taking the risks in Ireland."

Voldemort stared at her, considering. "Such as?"

Pandora glanced over at Bellatrix, hovering nearby, and the younger Lestrange, who wasn't looking at her but seemed to be listening closely. "Later," she said, flashing Voldemort a generous smile. "I have a few ideas."

There was a moment, and then he smiled back at her. "Later, indeed."

Far beneath the surface, locked in a corner of her mind where Voldemort couldn't see her, sense her, or feel her, Pansy shuddered and took notes.

XXX

Draco had a new wand: hawthorn and unicorn hair, just like his old one, made to the same dimensions. It was not an Ollivander wand, but one that his mother had sent him from abroad. The maker's mark, carved on the bottom of the wand, was unfamiliar, as was the wave-like design on the grip.

It shouldn't have worked. The wand chose the wizard, as Ollivander was fond of saying, and that was the conventional wisdom. It went against everything he had ever heard about wands that his new wand arrived in a box, sleek from Switzerland, that he opened it and picked it up and… it worked. There was the same warmth in his fingers, there was the same cascade of sparks as his core connected to the wand. He cast a _Lumos _charm, and the top of his wand was lit, and it was nothing for him to detach the ball of light and send it to the ceiling as he had done using his old wand. A Shield Charm came out, as quick and efficient as his old wand, and Draco didn't know how to feel about it.

This wasn't magic. Purchasing a wand shouldn't be a matter of listing specifications, then a box arriving by owl that held the wand that worked for him. Purchasing a wand was about the experience: it was that first trip to Ollivander's shop in Diagon Alley, the walls of the tiny shop stacked high with wand boxes. It was watching the eccentric old Mr. Ollivander, only a distant relation to the noble family, pulling box after box off the shelves, setting them on the desk, and handing him wands to try while describing woods and cores. It was picking up each wand, one by one, feeling the reactions of each one; some of them would try to leap out of his hands, some would do nothing, and there would be one, inevitably the last one, that would be _right_, that would spark in his hands and make magic.

But it was a wand. It wasn't his old wand, and it wasn't the magical experience that buying a wand was supposed to be, but his wand _worked_. It made the exact same magic as his old wand, and Draco's practical sense said that this was all that mattered. He had a wand, and he could _help_, he could _do something_ about the situation they were in.

Or, he could do something if someone let him.

With the failure of the strike on Malfoy Manor and the Irish revolt, Harry and Blaise were no longer going door-to-door to SOW Party families, seeking support. It had been deemed too risky; even before the Malfoy Manor strike, they had been threatened and run off of multiple properties. The Notts, despite the death of the Lord Nott at the coup, had gone so far as inviting them in, serving tea, and calling the Ministry of Magic to arrest them. Had it not been for how well Blaise knew Theo, it would have been successful, and as it was they had had to fight their way out.

Draco didn't even know that Blaise could fight. Blaise had always, like Rigel, been one of his more academic friends, but unlike Rigel had shown little interest in developing combat skills.

After the failed strike on Malfoy Manor and the Irish revolt, however, it had been decided that any who wished to join would approach them, rather than the other way around. _Bridge_ continued to advocate resistance and to recruit, but it seemed like his individual efforts, as _Draco Malfoy_, were unnecessary.

Not that they would have been very likely to be successful, anyway. The Malfoy name was worse than nothing, it seemed.

Harry had managed to speak to her father about putting him in the main fighting force. The Lord Potter had been skeptical, not least because Draco was only sixteen years old, but they were desperate for new recruits and she had insisted that he was up to it. He had found himself in a training group of fourteen others, all of whom were older, all of whom had worked at desks, in shops, or had stayed home before the war started. None of them were especially good at defence—only half had been able to cast a decent Shield Charm at the beginning.

Draco had tried to give some tips, that first week, just on the proper way to hold a wand and proper duelling stances. The man beside him, glaring at him suspiciously, had asked him roughly what _he_, a sixteen-year-old noble, could possibly know, and Draco had then, thinking it would be helpful, said that he had been the leader of the Hogwarts Duelling Club.

"You were the leader of a _school club,_" the man said, scathing. "A little different than a war, don't you think?"

"It isn't exactly the same," Draco admitted, "but a lot of the base technique is the same, and you should be holding your wand at a sharper angle. It'll improve your reaction time, and that way you'll cast your shield faster."

"I've been holding a wand longer than you've been alive, boy," the man snapped. "Maybe you should go back to Hogwarts, safe with the rest of the children."

Draco held his tongue, feeling the man's defensiveness radiating from him, and gone back to his own corner. Later that day, he had spoken to their instructor, an Auror named Isaac Abernathy, only to be directed to focus on himself.

"It's none of your business what the others are doing, Malfoy," he said, weariness emanating from him. "I want to see you working on your own technique, rather than criticizing others."

"So, they're just—just _bodies_, then, are they?" Draco asked, incensed. "Bodies to throw out and be killed?"

Abernathy had stared at him for a moment, with tired hazel eyes, and there was a sharp sense of grief. "Even the best fighters can die in a war, Malfoy. I will see you tomorrow."

Things didn't get better, after that first day. Draco kept his comments to himself, but he refused to pretend like he was anything other than himself. He _was_ better than everyone else in his training group, and the next week, when they moved into basic drills casting spells against the others, he blew them away—often literally.

He was faster. His footwork was better, and his wandwork was cleaner. Duelling Club might have just been a school club, but he had been teaching, training, and duelling others, one-on-one, for years. He had hoped that maybe, if he worked in silence and simply showed the others that his comments _were_ worth listening to, things would improve.

Draco didn't need an apology, or grovelling, or anything like that. Just a little bit of respect, an understanding that just because he was young, just because he was a noble, didn't mean that he had nothing to add. He wanted to say things, to correct people on their posture or technique, tell them the things that had helped _him_ improve, and he couldn't.

They were only getting angrier at him. Angrier, and more resentful, and he didn't need to hear the whispers about how he thought he was better than the rest of them, about how he didn't respect them, about how he didn't belong with them. He could feel it every time he stepped into the training ring, coming from all fourteen of his co-trainees.

He lasted eighteen days.

"Malfoy, if I can have a word?" Abernathy said, after the end of training that day. They had been working on combination spell-casting that day—two or three spells launched in succession, where they didn't expect the first spell to hit. They were common on the duelling circuit, and Draco had cottoned on easily. Combinations like _Pertus-Stupefy _or _Expelliarmus-Stupefy_ simply made sense, and he had again demonstrated his dominance in the duelling circle. That day, for the first time, Abernathy threw two of the other trainees against him.

Draco still won.

"Sir," Draco replied, an acknowledgement as he stood at attention while the others were dismissed. Over two weeks, he had guessed that Abernathy had lost someone close to him in the Malfoy Manor strike—the man always radiated grief, and guilt, and sadness.

Abernathy sighed, looking him in the eye. "This is not your fault, Malfoy," he said, "but I think it best if you withdraw from training. You aren't learning very much here, and you're posing a distraction to the other students and they're struggling to focus."

Draco looked down. "But—I want to fight, Auror Abernathy. I was told to enter training, and—"

"I'll have a word with Lord Potter," the Auror replied, shaking his head, his voice slow and steady. "At this stage, if we had a unit willing to accept you into their regular ranks, I would recommend it. You're at the level where you ought to be training with a regular unit. The basics you might be missing would be covered by your regular unit."

"Yes, sir." Draco's shoulders slumped, and he trudged away. He didn't return to training.

The problem with the suggestion to find a regular unit was that there were none—or rather, there were none that were willing to take him. He thought there _were_ units, but they were rather loosely formed and inconsistent, and he didn't know. He didn't know who the squad captains were, whom he would need to ask, and Lord Potter had banned Harry from being anywhere near the main army, so she didn't know either.

He waited a week for someone to tell him where to report to, but instead, Professor Lupin took him under his wing into a teaching assistant role. Professor Lupin had taken charge of teaching and training the weakest of the new recruits: mainly refugees from the Alleys, most of whom had never had formal schooling, some of whom had never even held a wand before. They were people who had had no reason to know him or to have an opinion about him, so the thinking was that he could be considered on his own merits. And Draco _did_ have experience teaching.

Walking out onto the field, in the grounds of Potter Place where Professor Lupin was working with the volunteers, Draco had thought he was prepared. Harry had told him that most of this group hadn't gone to school, but he had worked with raw beginners before. With their changing professors in Defense every year, the people who had joined Duelling Club had often had a very scattered knowledge anyway. He often felt like he was going back to the beginning, revising basic Shield Charms and _Lumos_ Charms.

He could do this. He wanted to be helpful, and he could teach.

But there was knowing about poverty and knowing that the people he would be helping to teach hadn't had much by way of formal schooling, and then there was seeing it. The group was larger than his training group, almost thirty people, a mix of men, women, and teenagers. They were talking quietly already.

They glanced at him, and he smiled weakly, feeling surprised, uncertain, uncomfortable. It wasn't as if he was dressed in the best robes, and he knew that this group had lost almost everything in the Fiendfyre attack in the Alleys, but their clothing was fit for nothing but scraps. They were threadbare, patched, faded and worn, and Draco couldn't be sure that they were even _clean_. He hid his discomfort as quickly as he could—war made for strange situations, and Draco would make it work. He had to make it work.

They ignored him, going back to talking to each other, and Draco realized that he barely understood them. Part of it were the words they used, but a bigger part of it was the accent—their vowels sounded strange, their consonants weren't as sharp as those he was accustomed to, and the rhythm of their words was off, a little uneven. But they didn't radiate dislike, or defensiveness, or anger at him, which was a relief after more than two weeks feeling his fellow recruits.

The dislike came later. Five days later, to be precise.

It was a thoughtless thing. Draco had gone over the _Protego_ Charm, patiently, with a man named Toth, for about three days. The man was struggling to remember the technical details—Draco could see the effort he was putting in every day, but it seemed like things just didn't stick with him.

"You should write it down," Draco said, trying to hide his frustration. He was going over the same things, over and over again, instead of moving on. "If you review it before you sleep, every night, it will stick better."

Toth had looked at him, very direct with no hint of embarrassment. "I can't read."

Draco had frowned. This was no time for jokes. "I am being serious, Toth," he replied, letting himself take a stern tone. "If you don't learn _Protego_, you can't move onto the other forms of shielding. _Protego_ is easiest of the shields to learn, and one of the fastest, but it's also the weakest. You _must _learn this."

The man glared at him, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. "I'm serious, too. I can't read."

Draco glared back, then he realized three things. First, they had become the centre of attention, with everyone else watching them. Second, his Empathy was ringing with anger, defensiveness, and dislike. Third, Toth probably really couldn't read.

He didn't know how to respond to that. Reading wasn't something that was taught at Hogwarts, but something taught at home. He had had tutors from when he was four, teaching him reading, writing, and arithmetic, as well as subjects that he _knew _others wouldn't have, like penmanship, etiquette, and basic wand-casting. But even Harry, who hadn't had formal tutors, had learned how to read and write at an early age, and literacy was just so basic, that it had never occurred to him that some people _really _could not read.

He looked around—the other students were whispering, now, watching him, and he swallowed.

"I didn't realize," he said, looking down. "In that case, er, I'll just go over it again."

Despite his words, and his resolution to be more careful, he made the same mistake, not even two days later. Toth was not the only one in the group who couldn't read—about half of them could not, which he realized when he moved on to work with a young mother named Williams and tried drawing the words air to help her pronunciation. She looked at the letters, blushed, and muttered, radiating shame, that she had never been very good at her letters. She had a hard time telling apart the As and the Os, and instead Draco ended up sounding out the incantation very slowly for her.

He really had not intended on it. Despite what it looked like, he simply didn't realize how much the assumption of literacy permeated the way he thought, the way he taught. It was there in the background to most of his memory tricks, or to the way he explained things, or the helpful guides he wanted to make to help people. With two mistakes, and the _same_ mistake, his mannerisms started to work against him. His students took his usual politeness and subtle discomfort as being stand-offish, and a week later he decided he needed to withdraw.

"I'm not being helpful, Professor Lupin," he explained. "They're—I'm making them uncomfortable, which is not a good learning environment for them, and I don't think the way I've learned to teach is really very helpful to them."

Professor Lupin reached out, resting one hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure? It's a process, and no one expects perfection."

"Yes." Draco's shoulders slumped. "I just—I'd like to be useful, Professor, and I don't think I am being useful here."

"All right." Professor Lupin's expression was sympathetic. "I'll have a word with James and Sirius, and we'll see where else you might fit in. Don't worry, we'll find somewhere for you to go."

Draco nodded. "Thank you."

It was early October, and Draco was back in his rooms at Rosier Place, staring at the roaring fire in his fireplace and feeling very out of place.

Draco hadn't been born for this, nor educated for it. He belonged in a different world. One with Lords and Ladies and nobility, with whirling summer garden parties and New Years Gala fundraisers; one where he was the Malfoy Heir, where he had the Parkinson Heiress on one side and the Black Heir on the other. But he glanced up at the wall across from him, pinned with lists of names, random thoughts, and newspaper articles: an overall view of what had happened thus far in the war.

His old world didn't exist anymore. He knew that. But there had to be a place for him in the new one. He just had to find it, so that he could get Pansy back with him. They could sort the rest out later.

XXX

John fixed his comm orb against his ear, propped his foot on the coffee table, and set a pad of paper against his leg to take notes. He waved a hand at Gerry, busy in their apartment's tiny kitchen, to keep it down so he could hear Chess better.

It was weird, being sixteen—almost seventeen—years old and basically living with his boyfriend in a one-bedroom apartment in Geneva. He should have been at school—Dad wanted him at school, but with Chess in Britain and him without a clear way of dragging her home to America short of knocking her out, stuffing her in a luggage case, and forcibly taking her across international borders, he wasn't leaving.

He'd thought about kidnapping her, but she would have probably just gone back. The thing about Chess was, even if she tended to follow rules and do what others told her to do, she mostly did because she didn't care enough to argue. It was when she decided that it _was_ worth arguing that she sank her teeth in and refused to be swayed. He knew her well enough to know that this was one of those times.

Really, he wanted to be in Britain himself. If he was in Britain, Chess would _not_ be staying with Aldon Rosier—she would, at the very least, be behind the four solid walls of Queenscove with someone who wasn't an absolute moron with no common sense and a set of morals straight from the seventeenth century. But no, instead, he was in Geneva, living with his nineteen-year-old future-ambassador-of-Wizarding-Germany boyfriend.

He tried not to think too much about it. There was no less weird option. No one would rent him a flat, he didn't know any of the regular MACUSA staff in Geneva well enough to impose, and he didn't want to crash with Tina and her fiancé for months on end.

"We finished the Portkey Hubs last week," Chess was saying, sounding almost a little absent. "I wish—it would have been more useful if we had finished them earlier."

"It'll still be useful in the future. What were the locations, again?" John bit the end of his pen, thinking over the possible refugee routes now that Portkey Hubs were an option. Madrid was out, the Spanish weren't usually part of the bloc headed by MACUSA, and the French were waffling as they always did. The closest friendly Portkey Hubs were likely Brussels or Amsterdam, but neither Belgium nor the Netherlands had much ability to provide for refugees, and it would probably be better to get any new groups of refugees right into either the Nordic Union or Germany. That meant Bergen, or maybe Koln.

"Um, Rosier Place is in Kent, I think—Aldon doesn't really know, but Lina said it was in Kent. Grimmauld Place is London, and Archie's cousin Harry is in Devon, I think? Queenscove is in Cumbria, and we have Portkey Hubs set up in—in Northumberland, East Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Norfolk and Suffolk, too." There was a pause on the other end. "But these are really small Hubs, John, not—nothing like in New York, or even like AIM. We set the transportation capacity at six, so—for refugees, it'll still be a hassle."

"Still better than individual Portkeys and a rickety boat to Norway," John muttered, making a note of the list of counties. "If we have more refugees, I think passing through Rosier Place would be easiest, it's physically the closest to the Continent. Koln might work as a transit point."

"Aldon is going to hate it," Chess replied bluntly. "He doesn't like it when strangers come through Rosier Place. He'll refuse, try to direct them elsewhere."

"Why?"

"Security risk." There was a noise, which John guessed was the sound of Chess flopping down on a sofa, or her bed, or something. "Aldon is a bit—paranoid."

"He's insane, that's what he is," John grumbled. Chess had heard his opinion before, but it didn't stop him from saying it again. Maybe if he said it often enough, she would believe him.

"John…" Chess sighed. "If I need to, I think I could probably talk him around. In terms of other good news, Archie talked the rest of the alliance into holding together. Lady Malfoy is going to have instructions to be neutral on the Irish revolt at the ICW, while Aldon says he's going to forge some alternate instructions for his spy in the official Wizarding British contingent to slip in to cause confusion."

"That'll be fun." John grinned, though he knew she couldn't see it. "Using the formal noble penmanship to his advantage. If they all write the same, it'll be that much harder to detect a forgery."

Chess laughed. "Yeah. Other than that, ACD development is going well! Neal, his brother Graeme and his cousin Fei all have them, as do Archie and Sirius. And we finally got in a new shipment of materials so we can start testing and equipping more people! I still don't like the frequency range we can serve, but with more data…"

"More data," John repeated with a sigh. It was a continuing refrain with her. The ACD was usually first and foremost in her thoughts, with everything else coming secondary, and surprisingly John found he missed it.

He wished he were there with her. Chess had never been good with words—she told him everything that had happened since she had arrived in Britain in their daily update calls, but without access to her mind, he couldn't see it for himself or form his own impressions.

"How is everything else?" He asked, changing the topic. "How is Rosier Place?"

There was a pause, and when she spoke, Chess' voice was cautious. "It's fine. Everything has been… quiet. Quieter than expected. Aldon has—there are two more Stormwings, or trainees I guess, patrolling the grounds even if he doesn't have a full force here. It's—well, I guess the other houses have more manpower, but I know Aldon's been working hard on the magical defenses."

"He should get a full force for Rosier Place." John tapped his pad of paper, thinking. For the moment, MACUSA was primarily interested in refugee routes and the general status of the war, not specific unit locations, but he wouldn't be surprised there came a point where he was asked for the latter. If MACUSA needed to do an extraction for their citizens, it would be information they would want to know. "Why hasn't he?"

Chess sighed. "He—I don't think he trusts any of the units. I don't really—I think there are Light and Dark politics involved, or something. Aldon is a Dark wizard, and the Lord Potter, who leads the military branch, is Light."

John shook his head, annoyed. He understood Wizarding British politics better than most, his new day job at MACUSA as a political analyst covering Wizarding Britain not helping, but he would never like them. There were parts of it that were just _weird_, and the entanglement of Light and Dark affinity with politics was one of them. "That's a stupid reason."

There was a noise on the other end, an uncomfortable shifting. "I—I don't want to argue about Aldon again, John. He's doing his best and—and I don't want to argue about it. He's been—a perfect gentleman."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Chess." John set his pad of paper down, and his pen, rubbing the back of his head. "Or maybe it is."

A pause. "I'm single, John. I'm not even—it's been months since I broke it off with Faleron. But, um, Aldon is busy anyway. I'm sure—I'm sure he's not thinking about anything like that, and he's the Lord Rosier now. We'll just—just get through the war, and I'll release him from his oath, and that'll be it."

John didn't think it would be as straightforward as that, but there was nothing to be said about it. "I just don't like it when you get hurt. You know that."

She laughed. "I know. But—but you'll always be there to help me pick up the pieces, right? We're—we're—"

"We're family," John finished, without a second of hesitation. "Anything happens, Chess, we've got you."

"Yeah." Even without seeing her, John knew she was smiling from the other side. "Miss you."

"Miss you too. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

John couldn't see her set down the orb—there was nothing on their connection showing it, but he still knew that she had done it. Their connection, so far apart, was far more tenuous, and all he could really tell was that she wasn't hurt, or injured, or ill. It was still comforting to have it there. He pulled the tiny comm orb out of his ear, tossing it onto the coffee table with a sigh.

"How is everything?" Gerry handed him a bowl of pasta, dropped on the sofa beside him and draped one arm over his shoulders. "Your sister?"

"She's fine." Even saying so, though, he leaned into Gerry, resting his head on his boyfriend's shoulder. "I'd just like if she were fine here, or in America, or anywhere except Wizarding Britain."

"Understandable." Gerry rested his head on John's. "What's this I heard about Koln?"

XXX

Archie blinked, and the words on the page were blurry. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It felt like he could never catch a break—there was always _something_. After the Irish revolt, it seemed like almost everyone had questions for him.

The Clanmeet had dissolved into argument and spellfire—from what Quinn and Toby said, not entirely unusual—because about half the Clans thought they should break off from Wizarding Britain as well. They had numbers, and the Irish had shown that it could be done. Archie himself had been there, Dad pulling him to the ground when the first spell, from one of the MacLeods, had gone flying across the bowl-shaped valley that were their formal meeting grounds. It was Lady Ross who eventually established control and convinced everyone to stay in the alliance.

The Scots weren't the Irish. Even if the Scots had the same numbers as the Irish, they didn't have the same fighting force. The Irish had been held down to such an extent over the last half-century that nearly every mage had been prepared to fight—as a proportion of their population, the Irish had far more fighters and fewer civilians. They were an island, their geography keeping assistance from coming to the Ministry, but most importantly, they had had the element of surprise. With the blood discrimination laws, a larger and larger proportion of their population had become undocumented. Finally, most of them had schooled abroad, almost half at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, developing a strong sense of unity in their mutual oppression and displacement. The Irish were more one nation than any other: pureblood, halfblood, newblood, they were all Irish.

The Scots didn't have that unity. The Scots had always been loyal to their Clans first, rather than to Scotland as a whole. They also had managed to shelter largely beneath the notice of Wizarding Britain—few in government knew they existed, and they had kept it that way. Most of theirs had schooled at Hogwarts—some of them even worked in the Ministry. Scottish newbloods had more in common with the general British halfblood and newblood contingent, and few made their way to the Clans even if they returned home. They were smaller, with less desperation and a smaller fighting force, and as the Lady Ross pointed out, they had a land border to defend.

Archie had breathed a sigh of relief, learning firsthand why the Lady Ross was so well-respected. She was formidable and, after her stern, no-nonsense words, reinforced with spells, his words were hardly even necessary. He was there largely to provide a face to their other collaborators: _Bridge_, the BIA, the Welsh, the shifter Alliance, the remaining Light faction families.

There were less Light faction families than he would have liked. The best response he had gotten from that group was silence, rather than support. The Light families tended to be of the view that the Irish revolt required a strong condemnation, if not outright retaliation. Most of those families had always been a little hesitant to trust him, relying heavily on Dad and Uncle James, and it was ultimately Uncle James and Lord Dumbledore who had kept that flank together. They didn't have the forces to retaliate, anyway.

The Welsh and shifters had fortunately remained neutral in the whole debacle, while the BIA had largely been supportive of both Irish independence and _Bridge_'s position. Hermione, too, was supportive, pointing out that a stronger statement would likely give the Irish more grounds to decline providing refugee aid without hurting their claim for sovereignty and recognition before the ICW. Had _Bridge _threatened retaliation or stronger measures, the Irish could fairly say that they needed to conserve their resources to fight wars on two fronts; with _Bridge _acknowledging their independence, it would reflect badly on them if they didn't take in more refugees from their closest neighbour against an enemy that they, too, were fighting. If the Irish wanted ICW recognition, they needed more recognized allies in the ICW, including from the other nations now taking in British refugees: Wizarding America, Canada, Australia, the Nordic Union, Germany.

Overall, Archie didn't think their side had ever been in worse shape. The summer had started with the coup, and then there had been the burning of the Alleys. Their retaliation strike on Malfoy Manor had gone badly, and now the Irish had revolted. They looked completely lost, out of their depth, and Archie couldn't even leverage their few successes to boost morale.

Their few successes—breaking into the Floo Regulatory Authority, setting up the Portkey Hubs, strikes on Voldemort's supply chains and the small letter bombs to the Ministry—weren't exactly the sort of successes that he could publish in Bridge. As far as Aldon knew, the Ministry had not yet caught onto the fact that all the main _Bridge_ safehouses were off the grid. It would be better if they didn't simply hand pieces of information to them on a silver platter, splashed across the front page of _Bridge_. Similarly, the Portkey Hubs that they now used instead were protected partly because few people had any in-depth knowledge of them, and it would be better if Voldemort and his Ministry didn't have forewarning about their existence. And he didn't want to be signing a confession for their few successful strikes, especially because at least two of them amounted to highway thievery. Not exactly glamourous, even if it got them materials, and the letter bombs were creating a very nervous and distracted atmosphere in the Ministry in which less got done than it should.

But without any other victories, there was little of hope to put into Bridge. In some ways, the Irish revolt, and their continuing success in holding Voldemort off their island, was the closest thing that they had to a win against Voldemort—while _Bridge_ had been betrayed, the Irish had shown that throwing off Voldemort was _possible_. Otherwise, Archie was left to repeating the same points, the same warnings, the same rallying cries, and by October they were wearing thin.

They needed something to boost their morale. _Archie_ needed something to boost his morale, and he didn't have anything.

Martin Luther King had struggled, he reminded himself, straightening at his desk and twisting his right arm over his left to stretch out his lower back. No one had ever said it would be easy, but there was right and there was wrong, and Voldemort was wrong. Archie had to hold strong and keep the coalition strong around him.

"Arch?"

Archie turned around, spotting Harry standing in his doorway. To most, he thought that she probably looked stoic and impassive, but he could still read the tiredness radiating from her in the almost too-sharp way that she moved. She had been spending too much time over her cauldron, brewing endless batches of Healing Potions for their safehouses, as well checking in on Leo daily. When he asked, she had mentioned that he seemed to be drinking a lot when he wasn't helping with the Lower Alleys refugees, but he hadn't wanted to press.

Months on, there was still a small part of him that did a double-take when he saw her as herself—she had only been back, undisguised, for a few months, while his mental picture of her for years had been _Rigel Black_. As herself, she was shorter. She still wore the same loose clothes that she had worn as Rigel, preferring brewing robes, tunics and breeches, but they did little to hide her figure. Her eyes were as bright as he remembered from their childhood, with the same laser-like focus, but they looked very different when the shape of her face had changed, becoming softer and rounder, her mouth and chin coming from Aunt Lily rather than Uncle James. Her hair was longer, coming just past shoulder-length, and she almost always pulled it either half up or entirely up in a short version of the ponytail that he recognized from their childhood.

He liked it. She looked like herself.

"Harry!" He smiled, trying for the trillion-watt smile that she always teased him for. "How are you?"

She looked him over, and the quirk of her eyebrow said that she knew perfectly well that whatever his expression, he was similarly tired and disheartened. "As good as you are, I think. What's wrong?"

Archie sighed, picking up his book and holding it up for her to see. _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People._ It was something else on leadership, in the same vein as Hermione had been giving him over the past few months. As much as he loved Hermione, and as well as he understood her intentions, the books were mostly useless. Language about _leading yourself_, and then _understanding true leadership_, all of this sounded very nice, but it didn't tell him how he was supposed to be inspiring his side to victory.

Harry tilted her head, considering. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I… don't really think that books about business strategy are very applicable to war."

Archie sighed again and threw the book on his bed. "Hermione thinks they're better than nothing. I mean, she already tried giving me Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_ and that was awful, and then there was _Meditations_ by Marcus Aurelius and that was even worse, so… I guess it's business books, now."

Harry grinned, a little impish, and came into his room. She was carrying a wireless under one arm, the old-style one from the living room, which she put down beside her. "I don't think you need anything like that, Arch. Leo never needed books to teach him how to lead. I don't think you do, either."

"Yeah, well…" Archie's smile faded a little. "I was hoping they would give me some ideas on how to inspire people. We're like, five losses to nothing, and people are staring to lose faith in us. I'm so caught up in convincing people that what we're doing is _right_, that Voldemort is _wrong_—people are starting to wonder if they should strike out on their own, or take the risks of Voldemort's government. I'm just repeating the same things over and over again, but they're not having the same impact they did before. I'm not convincing anyone new, and the people who stuck with us are starting to doubt."

"Hmm." Harry tilted her head, then reached for the wireless. "I think this might cheer you up, then. I ran into Fred and George earlier today—they wanted to come and give you an update themselves, but they know you're busy and they were worried they might bother you, so I said I would let you know."

"They got the radio station working?" Archie perked up, shifting around to straddle his chair and resting his chin against his chair back. "Tell me they got it working!"

"Better, I think." Harry grinned, turning the wireless on. It was tuned already to the Wizarding Wireless Network, which was rehashing, again, the dangers of _Bridge_. She glanced back at Archie, seeing his wince. "Wait. Just wait. They said it would around now."

"Okay. I'm waiting."

They sat and waited, listening to the dry broadcaster spout on at length about terrorism, about the need for the Ministry to take stronger measures to put down the rebellion. That was what _Bridge_ and their allied Light faction families had become, now—the rebellion. The terrorists. The reason that the rest of society could not be safe, and would not be safe, until they were stopped, killed, or arrested.

There were kill-on-sight orders for many _Bridge _members. Archie was one of them, as was his dad, and Uncle James, Harry, Uncle Remus. Alastor Moody was on the list, and the former Lady Rosier. Even Aldon had made the list. They had rehashed all their crimes, the usual suspects: assault, assault with a weapon, murder, sedition, treason, a thousand dry lines as they threw the law at them. Archie gritted his teeth—it was only the same propaganda that was in the _Daily Prophet, _repeated in a new medium, but he would always be upset hearing it.

There was a crackle across the report, then a loud klaxon blast, and Archie sat bolt upright.

"Well, that's a _boring_ newscast, don't you think?" A voice drawled, and Archie grinned. It was one of the Weasleys—he couldn't be sure which, but he recognized their voices. "Don't you miss the days when the Wizarding Wireless Network wasn't just gloomy news reports and propaganda, Sound?"

"That I do, Fury," the other twin said agreeably. "I could have done without the Celestina Warbeck, granted, but I am definitely feeling like the last Weird Sisters album isn't receiving the love that it deserves. Bad luck for them, since they released it just before our government got taken over by a nutter."

"We should fix that, you think?" The first twin replied, almost a little airy. "The music first, the maybe we'll look at the government. All of you listening, if you're interested in a little music, a lot of fun, and yes, maybe a little politics here and there, check us out on the Underground, tuned to 104.5 and a dab of magic."

There was another crackle, and they were gone.

"Wow," Archie breathed, wide-eyed. The Weasleys were geniuses—if they weren't already on Voldemort's hitlist, they would be now, but they were _geniuses_. "That was brilliant!"

"They are, aren't they?" Harry reached to turn the wireless off, silencing the continued talk about terrorism. "They're really good at calming people down or boosting people's spirits. They did it all the time at Hogwarts."

"It's just what I needed." Archie grinned. "I needed something to put in _Bridge—_oh, but can I put them in _Bridge? _That will probably be too much of a security risk, won't it?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm sure they have some security measures in place, but it doesn't hurt to disassociate them from _Bridge_ a little. You can still publish an article about it, but it might be advantageous to make them look independent. Enough for plausible deniability, at least—they'll pull in a bit of a different audience, one that might already be turned off _Bridge_."

"Yeah…" Archie looked away, the moment of joy turning back into stress. "But then, what do I put in Bridge? I can do a news report about a new radio station, fine, but I need more. _Bridge_ needs to be seen doing something, too."

Harry looked away, thinking it over. "Well, what about… hmm. You could go out and try to do something big, like a public denunciation in Diagon Alley in front of the Ministry—"

"Like Enjolras, or Richard III?" Archie huffed a laugh. "I don't know. Big, stirring speeches like that—they work in theatre, but I don't know how well they do in real life. I think people want this to end, Harry, they want peace, and if I can't give them that, I need to give them something _real._ They're tired of ideals. They want solutions."

She nodded, grimacing. "You're right. It's also needlessly dangerous, which should discount it already. Let me think."

She fell silent, staring at a spot on the wall across from her. After a few minutes, Archie reached for his book again, paging through it half-heartedly. More ideals, that was what this book was filled with. Ideals and platitudes. Even another update from the International Confederation of Wizards, which had passed yet another resolution this week condemning Wizarding Britain for serious infringements on individual freedoms and the institution of martial law, weren't going to cut it. Wizarding Britain had been out of the international community for too long; most people saw no difference between the ICW then, and the ICW now.

"I can't hand you a solution, Arch," Harry said finally, interrupting his circular train of thought. "But I can hand out Protection Potions. I'll—I'll work out something with the Potions Guild. Announce it in _Bridge_. If they go to the Guild, the Guild will hand out one Protection Potion to them, free of charge, no questions asked. Handing out Potions for free isn't a crime, and it might push other Guilds into doing something too. It's not a solution, but it's something. Would that help?"

Archie stared at her for a second, and then he got up and dove at her. She caught him, almost a little late, surprised.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Archie said, squeezing Harry tight around her shoulders. "Thank you. It's something, and something is better than nothing."

She laughed, patting him on the back. "Don't worry about it. I brew all the time anyway, and I have a stock prepared. And the ingredients are cheap."

"Still." Archie pulled away, giving her his brightest smile—genuine, this time. "Thank you."

XXX

_ANs: So, uh, for anyone who read Blake, you may enjoy speculating in the comments and reviews about how and the extent to which this chapter differs from that version of events? Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, who literally works twice as hard on CC as she did on the others because I am bad at writing war, and to the few of you who so reliably engage and comment! You make it easier to write the next chapter when I am uninspired and sad, so keep it up!_


	7. Chapter 7

The Lord Potter looked at the list of potential targets with a frown on his face. Aldon knew well what it said. It was a list provided to him by Swallow, the sites that Voldemort was thinking about hitting as retaliation for the Irish revolt. Late in October, the man had finally let go of trying to strike at Ireland itself, and the _Daily Prophet_ had been spinning tales for the past two weeks about Irish collaborators within Wizarding Britain.

Aldon had no idea how Swallow was doing what she was doing. All his informants had reported that Voldemort was a powerful Legilimens, and to his knowledge, Swallow had never had any Occlumency training. Yet, somehow, she had gained a high position for herself in his Ministry, her role as a spy apparently sailing beneath his notice.

The issue was that, the higher she rose in Voldemort's esteem, the closer she was watched—not only by Voldemort himself, but by any number of his followers who wanted her position. She was only rarely able to get away, and when she had smuggled out this list, Voldemort had not yet settled on a target. This was only a list of possibilities, not firm, but because it was Swallow who had provided it, Aldon knew that it was good information.

Voldemort's next target was on this list. He just didn't know which one Voldemort would choose to strike.

The Scots topped the list of potential targets. Some of the Scottish Clans wanted independence as well, and it was not hard to believe that they would support their friends, the Irish, in breaking away in return for a similar favour at a later time. The _Daily Prophet_ had also been drawing comparisons between the Scottish Clans and the Irish for a week, drawing attention to their similar goals, as well as the threat the Scottish posed in the north. Three days ago, the _Prophet_ had released a suggestion for any British families living within traditional Scottish lands to consider evacuating south. If that wasn't a signal, then Aldon didn't know what was.

On the other hand, Queenscove was also on the list. At first, Queenscove seemed like a bit of an unlikely target. It was shockingly well-defended by both magical wards and trap spells, and by physical walls and ravelins. On further thought, however, Aldon couldn't be sure that anyone on Voldemort's side knew anything about Queenscove. Neal had only hosted one event, mainly for Light faction families, and it had been poorly attended by Society standards. Not everyone who had attended stood with them, but Voldemort's followers included few Light faction families and Aldon didn't think any of them would be volunteering information to Voldemort just yet.

Queenscove was a good target because Neal wasn't British. He was a Canadian and proudly so, and he had strong connections abroad—not just in Wizarding Canada, but in Wizarding China, America and at the ICW. He, his mother, his brother and cousin had all been a part of the Malfoy Manor attack, and after that strike Queenscove had drawn further recruits from the British International Association, who were among the most supportive of Irish independence. Striking at Queenscove would strike at many supporters of Irish independence, as well as matching Voldemort's nationalistic and xenophobic rhetoric.

But the Welsh, including traditional casters much like the _Tuatha D__é_, were on the list too. Through the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric had shown that the art was not lost among the Welsh, and Aldon did not think that would have escaped the notice of anyone with any sense. However, Cedric wasn't strong by traditional standards, and the magic he had shown in the Tournament was nothing on par with what Aldon guessed had to have happened in Ireland. The Welsh were also fewer in number, covering a large area, and fairly beaten down otherwise. They hadn't been at the Malfoy Manor attack, and there were far fewer justifications for a strike against them than against the other listed targets. Other than a vague connection by way of traditional magical technique, there was no rationale for a strike against them, and the Welsh were weak. After Ireland, Voldemort needed a show of power to demonstrate his authority, and the Welsh wouldn't provide one.

If Voldemort wanted to demonstrate his authority, it would make far more sense for him to strike at Grimmauld Place, the known residence of Arcturus Rigel Black, the assumed leader of _Bridge_. _Bridge _was often described as an Irish collaborator, and by their own statements, that wasn't wholly incorrect. Grimmauld Place was also the weakest of the manor homes—it didn't have the expansive grounds that any of the other manors had, into which trap-spells could be built to bleed the enemy. Unlike the other manors, they were also fairly certain that Voldemort could break the wards and gain entry, because Master Black was a part of the Black Family. To close that loop, Sirius would have needed to disown him and strike him from the family, requiring a blood ritual that he was unwilling to do.

Aldon and Lina had pushed him on it more than once, but Sirius had been immovable on the subject. He would rather lose the manor than disown his brother, regardless of the fact that Regulus Black now stood at the side of the enemy.

Lina had told him to prepare, then, for the loss of the Black manor—the second such incident in three hundred years. Even if Grimmauld Place wasn't lost in the next attack, or in the one after that, it was such a prime target that Voldemort was bound to capture it eventually. Grim-faced, Sirius had simply accepted the inevitable, and he had spent the better part of the last three weeks setting his manor with Blasting Curses and Explosive Runes. He and Archie now lived over the equivalent of a Muggle bomb and had six different emergency escape plans prepared for the inevitable attack.

Finally, Rosier Place had also made the target list. Aldon could not be sure what would have prompted their inclusion—Aldon himself was a halfblood who had recently graduated Hogwarts, but their family was historically Dark, and indeed he had been raised as a Dark pureblood with many acquaintances now in Voldemort's ranks. Aside from that, however, Aldon didn't think that his manor had any of the _particular_ characteristics which would make it a good target for a _retaliatory_ strike against the Irish. Aldon had no connection to Ireland, and with Blake & Associates officially relocated and headquartered in Lyons, he hoped that their own international connections would go unnoticed.

He could hope that his and Lina's historical connections might cause Voldemort to hesitate with an attack on them, if only because his followers might, but he wouldn't rely on it. Aldon's resident Stormwings were already shoring up his defenses, though Lina did not think that Voldemort would strike seriously at Rosier Place. The Stormwings there, whom she had identified through international connections, would know that she was at Rosier Place and would have some idea of the defenses that she had laid. As innocuous as his manor seemed by way of physical defences, Lina and the Stormwings swore that the spells they had laid would bleed the enemy dry.

Five separate targets, each with good reasons to be targeted. But each also having good reasons not to be targeted, too.

Aldon stared at the Lord Potter's expression as the man eyed the list. Over the past few months, they had developed something like a working relationship—they would never like each other, but Aldon thought the man would at least consider what he said.

"Do you have any other information that might tell us which one Voldemort will choose?" Lord Potter said finally, setting the list down. "Anything else, Lord Rosier."

Aldon shook his head. "Nothing. I've given you my analysis of the advantages and disadvantages of each target with the list, and that is the best I can do."

"We don't have the resources to defend multiple locations." Lord Potter's mouth was a thin line. "It's too soon. Our new units, not that there are many of them, are too green—they'll just be slaughtered. We don't have the resources for this."

"The Clanhomes, with warning, may be able to hold against an attack," Aldon said, trying to be helpful. "Queenscove has walls. Neal would appreciate an additional unit stationed at his manor, but he may be able to manage on his own with his own forces. Rosier Place is already shoring up defenses, though we have no internal unit of our own. I would suggest, however, that we put additional forces to defend both Grimmauld Place and the Welsh. With the Portkey Hubs, we can also redistribute forces as necessary."

The Lord Potter grimaced. "We don't even have additional units to cover two locations, not the way I'd like. I'll put an additional unit at Grimmauld Place. Even if we think we'll lose it long-term, we can't just sacrifice it—we need to make it an opportunity. As for the Welsh, they're not centralized into a single safehouse, and there's nowhere for us to station our units. They have planned extensive escape routes through their territory instead. I can warn Diggory and some of the others, but without a time or a place, it isn't more than they already knew."

Aldon shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't understand Lord Potter's point, but they had information. They needed to act on it. He had already sent warnings to Neal and the Scots, and he was preparing himself, but they needed to do more. "Surely there is something more you can do."

Lord Potter sighed, reaching up to run his hand through his hair. "I'll pull one of the squads off Goldenlake, they're close enough to Queenscove to get support, for Grimmauld Place. I'll also ask Moody to stop teasing the Ministry guards so his people can stay well-rested. The Welsh don't have a Portkey Hub, so I can't send more forces to them without isolating them form the rest of our forces, but they can Apparate in at the first sign of trouble. Wales isn't too far from here, so Apparition drain shouldn't pose too much of a problem, but I'll task it to the units at Potter Place and the Naxens. They're the closest. It's the best I can do, Lord Rosier."

He wasn't lying, so Aldon nodded. He didn't know what else could be done, and even if it didn't seem to be enough, he didn't have any more suggestions. He rose from the table. "I'll let you know if I hear anything further, Lord Potter."

Despite that conversation, the next days were marked with an odd sort of restlessness. He had no issue with his usual work—indeed, if anything, he was more productive than normal. He reworked his wards for the dozenth time while Lina and the Stormwings mined his grounds with another dozen nasty trap spells, then he walked everyone at Rosier Place through the emergency escape procedures twice more. He sorted through his correspondence, decoding each missive in record time, looking for anything that could point to a definitive target. He even voluntarily went to Queenscove every day to train in the lists.

Neal glared at him suspiciously the first time he showed up. "Al… are you okay?"

Aldon shrugged. "Fine."

"You _never_ show up to training without me going over there to drag your ass over here." Neal's eyes narrowed. "The attack is freaking you out, isn't it?"

"Why would it?" Aldon pulled out his gun, fishing in his pockets for the paintballs that he used instead of bullets in the lists. Neal's lists were too crowded of late—Aldon didn't have anything comparable at Rosier Place, but he probably would need to get on that soon. The gardens, he supposed, could be sacrificed for it. It wasn't as if they grew anything in the winter anyway.

Neal followed him towards the lists, where Keladry Mindelan and three others were already engaged in a mock battle with Neal's older brother and cousin. "Because it's something that you got forewarning for, so you feel like you have to be prepared?"

"I've spoken with Lord Potter, and we're as prepared as we can be."

"But you're worried anyway." Neal paused. "Sometimes, Al, waiting is a trial of its own. You need to sleep more."

Aldon hadn't felt any spell, but Neal could have cast a diagnostic charm at him behind his back. The man was nothing if not nosy. "Yes, well, if I could sleep more than four hours in a night, I would, but clearly it isn't happening. You're always telling me to train more, so here I am."

Neal studied him for a moment, then he sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Maybe we'll tire you out enough that you'll sleep better, at least."

They made a valiant effort, Aldon had to admit, but it was never enough.

The Patronus found him mid-morning, decoding a new stack of information—much of it was from the Ministry of Magic, including alerts from Robin about what news laws were up for passage, and one from Magpie about the most recent orders issued to the British delegation at the ICW. It was a flash of silver, blinking in the corner of his eye, and Aldon, one ineffective coffee into his morning, took a few seconds to notice it.

At first, he thought it was just tiredness. But it lingered, and the moment he turned to look at it properly, he was on alert. A white-tailed deer, not a Patronus that he knew. It was flickering, which was nothing that Aldon had ever seen before—Patronuses glowed with a soft light, but they were either there or they were gone. He had never seen one this pale, as if it were barely holding on.

He stood, his hands flat on his desk, his heart pounding and beating erratically. The attack wasn't at Rosier Place, because he felt nothing against his wards, the manor found nothing untoward, and he heard nothing outside his doors. It couldn't be Grimmauld Place, because Sirius' Patronus was a great dog, and he thought Archie's was also a dog of some kind. It probably wasn't Queenscove, because Neal's Patronus was a leopard seal, though he supposed it could have been anyone else at Queenscove.

"Aldon—" The Patronus snapped out of view, then with a bright surge, came back. "—escaped. An absolute mess. I don't—"

The Patronus was gone, and Aldon waited. It had said close to nothing, and Aldon hoped, almost against hope, for the Patronus to reappear again. He had never seen anything interfere with a Patronus before. Any Dark spell that tried tended to be annihilated, any Neutral spell tended to glance off them, and any Light spell tended to be subsumed.

A minute. Two minutes, and Aldon shook his head, buzzing adrenaline filling his veins, and drew his own wand. Two tries, and his merlin was cocking its head at him.

"Lord Potter—it's Wales," he snapped. "Limited information. Cedric sent me a Patronus, but the message did not come through cleanly. I only heard that it was an absolute mess. I will be at Peverell Hall anon."

Then he flew out of his office, searching for one of the Stormwings. Lina was always his preference, but he would settle for any of them.

"Nothing interferes with a Patronus," Moody growled, frowning at Aldon with a hint of suspicion, when he at last found Lina and Moody in a conference in the formal dining hall. "It's why they're so useful for messaging."

Aldon spread his hands helplessly. "I did not say that it was explicable, only that it happened."

"I don't like it," Lina muttered. "I don't like new things, unless they're _our_ new things. One of us has to go and investigate. What was the rendez-vous point for the backup units for Wales?"

"There wasn't one defined," Aldon replied, shaking his head, hoping that his own worry and uncertainty was not obvious. His own gift was telling him that his calm and even voice was a lie, but neither of the Stormwings seemed to have noticed. "By default, the Diggorys, but we relied on a message coming through with more information than we currently have."

Lina cursed under her breath. "Lord Potter's squads are going to be running around like a lot of idiots."

"I'll go meet them." Moody rose from the table, his electric eye spinning around the room. "They are likelier to trust me faster than you, Lina. I'll send a message when I track them down."

The old Stormwing stomped out of the room.

"I'm going to Peverell Hall," Aldon said, terse, when the woman he formerly called his mother turned her eyes on him. "I need—there's no telling what else might have happened, if the Patronus did not come through cleanly."

"Close to noon is a stupid time for an attack." Lina's lips were pressed in a thin line. "And the Welsh are the weakest of our allies. If you're going to Peverell Hall, go alert your girl. I will ask the trainees to be on standby and go with you myself. It could be a diversion—it does not take the entirety of Voldemort's forces to hold down the Welsh."

"Francesca is not _my_ girl," Aldon snapped irritably, even as he strode out the door.

Fortunately, he found Francesca in the library, deep in a discussion with Aman about the best spells to adapt and the ideal ACD specifications for combat use. From the few times he had stopped in previously, it seemed that they had found a way to load three separate spells into a single ACD.

"Francesca, a word?" he asked, aiming for an apologetic tone. "It is rather urgent."

She glanced at him, and the light, engaged expression on her face dropped instantly. "What is it?"

He tilted his head, searching for an explanation which wouldn't be unnecessarily alarming. "I've had a report—Lina and I need to go to Peverell Hall to discuss it with Lord Potter. I need you to watch the wards while I am away."

"Watch the—" Francesca fell silent, her hands trembling as she set her notebook down. "You've never asked me to watch the wards."

"There's been an attack, hasn't there?" Aman cut in her, her voice sharp.

"I'd rather not unnecessarily panic everyone," Aldon replied pointedly, glaring at the woman, but he didn't deny it. "There's been something. Francesca, please."

"Yes, um." Francesca piled her materials into a stack, picking them up, her voice trembling. "I'm—I'm coming. I'm—can Aman come with me, too?"

Aldon glanced at the other witch. He had never seen Aman in action, other than the night of the Fiendfyre attack, but the slight, brown-skinned woman did have a Defense Mastery. Further, she had been working in new magical technologies and consulting for almost two decades, specifically in spellwork relating to Defense. "Yes, of course. Aman, by chance, would you know any spells that might interfere with a Patronus?"

"_Interfere_ with a Patronus?" Aman straightened, both of her well-manicured eyebrows rising as she crossed her arms over her chest in thought. "_Terminating _a Patronus, yes, there is a spell for that—but what exactly do you mean by _interfere_ with a Patronus?"

Aldon gestured with his arms. "It flickered—in and out. Some of the message did not come through. Similar to a poor Muggle wireless connection?"

Aman paused, looking at him. "_Flickering_."

"Flickering."

Aman shook her head. "I've no idea. I can do some research, if you'd like, but I've never heard of such a thing."

"Please," Aldon replied, aiming for gratefulness rather than worry. "Francesca, I should not be more than a few hours, and I should know if anything happens to Rosier Place in my absence. Aman, if you stay with her, it may be best if you stay nearby—Moody is also gone, though Lina is putting the trainee Stormwings on alert.

Aman nodded, serious. "Will do."

A twist of his mind showed him that Moody was stalking across the grounds, heading for the wards to Apparate. Aldon adjusted the distances for the old man, figuring that whatever the man found, he could likely benefit from preserving his strength. Lina was already waiting for him outside the Portkey Hub, a retrofitted reception room on the second floor near the front of the house.

"Ready?" she asked.

Aldon didn't reply. Instead, he wrenched open the door, walking inside to rest one hand on the glowing, humming, silver ring.

"I suppose you are," she muttered, following him in and grabbing the bar. Aldon reached for the configuration panel, waving his hand through the runic short-code for Peverell Hall, and the electric buzz of waiting magic filled the air. No Portkey Hub transit worked until someone at the destination activated and allowed the transit, and it was three minutes before Peverell Hall accepted the request. There was a tug at the back of his neck, a whirl of colour as the room disappeared around them.

His feet slammed into the wooden floorboards of what had to have once been one of Peverell Hall's formal dining rooms, judging by the glass-and-crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and he wasted no time heading out the door into Peverell Hall itself. Harry met him, her face pale.

"There's a problem," she said, and Aldon didn't ask how she knew. As far as he understood, the Lord Potter was still at least perfunctorily attempting to keep her out of active combat, if not the war itself, but was having less and less success as time went on. He wasn't surprised—a whole pureblood establishment, including the Lord Potter, had not succeeded in keeping Harriett Potter out of Hogwarts, and there was no reason a war would be any different. Her green eyes were sharp as she led him towards the informal kitchen and dining room that the Potters usually used for meetings. "The two units here that were supposed to go to Wales couldn't get through—something's blocking the Apparition. Like an Anti-Apparition Ward."

"An Anti-Apparition Ward?" Aldon shook his head, not knowing what to say. "No one can do an Anti-Apparition Ward through the entirety of Wales. It would cost too much in magic—not even Riddle himself could have done it."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. But they're not punching through. They've tried three locations thus far, and nothing."

Inside the kitchen, the Lord Potter was pacing, listening to the description that one of his unit captains was reciting for him. Aurel Phillips, if Aldon remembered correctly. "I can't describe it—we get into the squeezing sensation of Apparition, and then it doesn't complete. It just doesn't complete, and we end up back where we started."

"Like trying to Apparate into an Anti-Apparition Ward?" Lord Potter supplied.

"I don't know, because I've never tried to Apparate into an Anti-Apparition Ward."

"No one has the power to ward the entirety of Wales!" Aldon interrupted, and the two men looked at him. "Riddle couldn't have done it—not Riddle, not Dumbledore. Not even _Merlin_ could have done it."

"Lord Rosier." The Lord Potter stopped in his pacing to face him, with an expression almost like hope, or relief. "Tell me you have more information. What do you mean, the Patronus did not come through cleanly?"

"It flickered, like a poor Muggle wireless signal," Aldon explained for the third time that day, making a bursting gesture with his hand. "The exact message was _Aldon_, cut off, _escaped, an absolute mess, _then _I don't_, and then it was gone. I recognized Diggory's voice."

"And you didn't cast a Terminus spell at it?"

"Why the _hell_ would I cast a Terminus spell on a messenger Patronus that one of my own allies had sent me?"

The Lord Potter shook his head briskly, as if he was dismissing an idea. "It seemed unlikely, but I had to ask. _Nothing_ interferes with a Patronus—as long as its within range, it should just be there, or not."

"Do you imagine that I do not know that?"

"My mistake, Lord Rosier." The Lord Potter's head snapped towards the front door. "Moody's here."

"Moody was to have gone to Wales to rendez-vous with our support squads," Lina said, her head turning in the same direction, her brown eyes sharp. "He's not one to quit with the mission incomplete—he's a stubborn old man."

The Lord Potter laughed, though it sounded like he was laughing out of habit, as though he thought he should, rather than out of any genuine happiness. Aldon heard the front door slam, and caught sight of Harry doing a very good imitation of being a wall furnishing. To avoid being dismissed, he guessed.

"Anti-Apparition Wards." Moody stomped into the room, his magical blue eye whirling furiously around in its socket. "It is _exactly_ as if the entirety of Wales has been warded with one massive Anti-Apparition Ward. I tried a dozen locations within Wales, and no luck. I can Apparate just outside of the Welsh border, but within it, blocked."

"But _no one_ has the strength to ward an entire country!" Aldon repeated, feeling very much like a broken Repetition Curse. "We're only able to set up and sustain Anti-Apparition Wards at our own manors because of our imbued keystones. Even if we took that approach, it would require…" he stopped, trying to compute the numbers in his head. "At one keystone per square mile, a minimum of 8000 keystones, all of which have to be magically imbued!"

"What about amplifiers, though?" Lina's voice was sharp. "Amplification Charms or devices…"

"Or power stones." Sirius added, sounding grim. He and Archie must have arrived during the arguing. "Keystones are just stones imbued with magical power to help sustain magically warded zones, but power stones include an amplification effect. Black opals, for example, are by size and weight some fifty times as powerful as a keystone for general uses. Rubies and sapphires, too, have particular strengths for amplifying Charms, while diamonds have an affinity with structured magic, such as Light magic and wards."

"Even so," Aldon replied, somewhat sharp. "That would be a hundred and sixty opals the size of _keystones_. It would require thousands of gemstones."

"But how many gemstones do you think there were in the Malfoy vault?" Lina asked quietly, and the room fell silent.

"Not just the Malfoy vault," the Lord Potter added, blanching in realization. "The family vaults of anyone now with Voldemort. The Lestranges, the Selwyns, the Crouches… who knows? Even the families known to be impoverished. Jewellery tends to become a family heirloom, kept even when everything else is sold off."

"That's true," Sirius agreed gruffly. "Even when we lost the Black manor, we kept over fifty pieces of jewellery—mainly black opals but there are a few other gemstones. And our collection, James, was nothing compared to the Malfoys, or many other Dark families. Cissy could tell us more about the Malfoy vault."

"It would still be _thousands_ of gemstones," Aldon repeated weakly, though he was thinking back already to the Rosier vault. Over a hundred pieces, including diamonds, opals, pearls, and more, and their collection had started only a few centuries ago. Families in the Book of Gold would have collected far more. "And jewellery is sentimental. I can hardly imagine that families would be willing to hand over their treasured family heirlooms to Voldemort to be used in spells..."

Except that he could. He had enough information from Vulture and Swallow to know that Voldemort ruled with a certain amount of fear, and he could perfectly imagine Ed, for example, handing over the Selwyn family heirlooms to protect Alice. If it was a question of the Rosier vault jewels or Francesca, he would do the same and have not a single regret about doing it.

"Yeah, that expression there," Moody grunted, with a dark sort of humour. "Boy gets it."

"It could be combined with a spell to limit contact—has anyone heard from anyone within Wales, today?" Lina looked around the circle. "Not only Patronus, but by owl, by Floo call, by comm orb, another messaging spell, anything."

They all shook their heads, but Aldon wasn't sure the lack of contact necessarily proved anything. There was nothing unusual about _not_ receiving an owl unless one was expecting an owl. Most of the Floo access points into Wales had been cut off, and as far as he knew, the only comm orb connection in Wales was between Cedric and Cho Chang, and he wasn't in contact with the latter. There were also no messaging spells other than Patronuses commonly used.

"The Weasleys live close to the Diggorys, just past the Welsh border," Sirius supplied. "Percy lives in London, the twins have relocated into Glasgow, and Ron and Ginny are at school. We can see if any of them have heard from their parents today, but… it would take time."

"I don't like this," Lina growled, slamming her hand onto the table with loud crack. "Why the Welsh—and why so many resources against the _Welsh_? Yes, they're traditional casters, and their magic is a lot like the Irish, but there's no provocation that Voldemort can rely on for a strike, and they're a poor target if Voldemort is trying to make a display of strength. You do not _need _these tactics against the Welsh. Forty trained Aurors would be enough."

"Does he know that, though?" Moody asked, blue eye spinning in thought. "Maybe he doesn't know that."

"Or these tactics themselves _are_ the show of strength," Harry offered quietly, from near the wall. "The ability to pull together this much power—he might be making an example. We know that he likes examples from the coup. He can always invent a provocation later."

"My sources inside Voldemort's camp do state that he is not stable at the best of times," Aldon agreed, his nose wrinkling. Vulture, in particular, seemed to enjoy trying to find new and more creative ways to describe Voldemort's madness, while Swallow's missives were painfully short and to the point, including only critical information and limited details.

"It could be a diversionary tactic." The Lord Potter sighed, running one hand through his hair. "He doesn't need his entire force against the Welsh, regardless of what else he's doing. He doesn't even need half his forces to hold down the Welsh. Tactics like this..."

"He could be trying to draw us out." Lina tapped at the table. "In which case, blocking the border and a massive Anti-Apparition Ward makes no sense. He's blocking us from whatever is happening in Wales—even the Patronus interference, whatever he wants to do in Wales, he wants it kept secret."

"Or, he's trying to make it look more interesting so that we go investigate." Moody's nose, or the scarred remains of it, was scrunched up in distaste.

"But he doesn't need to—the Welsh are our allies, and he can assume that we would come to their aid anyway. He doesn't _need_ to make it more intriguing to draw us out," Lina countered, but she didn't sound convinced.

"Can he assume that?" Moody shook his head. "Consider: we never once came to the defense of the Irish, and they were formally our allies. Instead, when they acted, we released a wishy-washy statement saying that we would tolerate their independence but condemning their methods. As far as we know, he doesn't have a spy inside our forces, and he knows that he hit us hard in the summer. Maybe he thinks he needs the intrigue to draw us out. There is also a risk that this is all a diversion from his true target."

"Diversion or not, we need to go. The Welsh are our allies. The only question is, how are we supposed to get there?" Lord Potter shook his head again. "Are there Floo points still working?"

Aldon glanced at Harry, who would know best. She hesitated, thinking it over. "A few, but not any families we know."

"Not secure, then," Moody growled. "I hate Floo as a method of transportation in war anyway. Chimneys are bottlenecks, they can cut us down while we go through."

"We can go on foot, or by Muggle train."

That was Archie, taking a step forward and edging into the circle around the table. "I managed to speak to Hermione—she ran to the train station in Oxford to check, and the Muggle trains are still running fine, including the trains to Cardiff. Wales has three million people in it other than mages, and there's nothing in the Muggle news. We should be able to get on by train, or on foot."

"Searching the entirety of Wales on foot…" Sirius grimaced. "Like searching for a wand in a forest. And I'd be careful about the trains—there are ways that we can ward a place against Muggles, but not wizards, and it stands to reason that they can do the inverse. We did it with the Barrier Buttons, drove away anything with a magical core, but I don't think those would work on a Muggle. You don't want to be on a train, then slammed off when it crosses the border."

"On foot, then," Aldon said, looking around the table. The Lord Potter looked hesitant, while Lina and Moody seemed annoyed, or resigned. Archie and Harry were exchanging looks, and Archie shook his head. Aldon turned his attention back on Sirius. "I do not think it will be as impossible a task to search as you are imagining. Voldemort will be concentrating on magical areas and magical families, not Muggle cities."

"But he knows it. If he's there, waiting to draw us out, then we're going to walk into it." Lina crossed her arms over her chest, her mouth scrunched into a small, distasteful moue. "And we don't have enough units. We've been collecting recruits, here and there, but so has he. We can't afford to throw troops away on a possible suicide mission. We need more information."

"I'll go."

Lord Potter choked, but Harry's voice was firm and clear. She glanced at him, resolve in the set of her jaw. "Leo and I, we'll go. Between the two of us, we have an unusual set of skills, and I have enough magical power that—well."

"Harry can punch through more than most," Archie finished for her, sounding bleak. He slung one arm around her shoulders. "I think it's a good idea."

"It's more help than I'm being here," Harry continued, carefully looking around the table at everyone except her father. "We've stopped meeting with the old SOW Party families to try to garner their support, so I'm not helping there anymore. Brewing supplies—you have enough Protection Potion and other Healing Potions to last you at least a month, and Archie can fill in the gap on Healing Potions if there's anything else you need. For the refugees, Hermione is the one with the connections and the skills, and our international allies generally respond better to her than to me. With the Lower Alleys refugees gone, I'm not needed there, either."

"Absolutely not," Lord Potter snapped, his face pale, but everyone else in the circle was listening. Lina and Moody, in particular, were eyeing Harry with thoughtful consideration. Even Sirius, though his expression was worried, didn't look ready to jump in to support the Lord Potter.

"Leo and I are more useful in the field," Harry said firmly, still avoiding her father's eyes. "We're not being used effectively where we are right now. We'll go in and scout. You can leave the squads on standby nearby."

Lina was already nodding, but Lord Potter was shaking his head. "Harry, this isn't a game. This isn't exciting, it's serious and dangerous."

"So was breaking the law to go to Hogwarts." A small tilt of her lips as she finally looked up at her father. "So was being at Hogwarts, come to think of it."

Aldon laughed, but quickly turned it into a hacking cough.

"I don't think of this as a game, or excitement." Harry shifted on her feet, something going unsaid, but Aldon wouldn't know enough about this version of her to be able to guess what it was. She wasn't lying. "This is just what needs to be done, Dad, and Leo and I are the best ones to do it."

"You're _sixteen_," the Lord Potter said flatly. "You're not of age."

"You were willing to accept Draco into the regular ranks, and he's sixteen." Harry shrugged. "This is a war. I don't think age matters."

"She's right, Lord Potter." Lina shook her head, looking at the Lord Potter. "That is the logical tactic. We don't have the information we need, so someone needs to go in and scout. Harriett would do well with the former Rogue and King of Thieves."

"We can ask for a few shifters to go with them," Sirius added lowly, patting the Lord Potter on the back. "It would be a bit safer that way, and if people need to return, they won't be left alone. James, if Harry wants to go, I think we should think about it. She has as much, or more, to lose as we do, and like us, she'll never be safe in Britain until the war is won. Age is just a number. Harry is resourceful, and she's not like us—she has a level head on her shoulders."

Harry smiled at him, slight but warm in gratitude. "Thanks, Uncle Sirius. If you send someone with us, can you keep it to only a couple people? More than four is likely to draw attention."

"Should be fine, Harry. No more than two, and if you need to split up, keep it in twos, understand? Don't make a liar of me."

"I won't." Harry nodded once, understanding. "Whoever it is, we'll need to meet them, come up with a cover story."

"I'll handle that part," Archie volunteered. "And if you meet them at Grimmauld Place, I'll dress you—the Muggle world is safer than ours, so in a picky situation, you can try to move to a Muggle area, find yourself a crowd and lose yourself in it."

"Voldemort is still aiming at legitimacy, so he can't flagrantly break the Statute of Secrecy, not without drastic consequences," Aldon agreed, tilting his head. "If he did, he would have to consider that the ICW and other nations might become involved to protect the Statute of Secrecy—he doesn't even have control of us, and he certainly does not want us to have formal military support from any other nations."

Harry hesitated. "We'll keep that in mind, though I expect that whatever else is happening isn't going to be in a Muggle area. Dad?"

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence, then the Lord Potter made a frustrated noise. "I can see when I'm going to be outvoted. Harry, reconnaissance _only_. No games, no tricks, no pranks. You're there to observe, not to interfere, no matter what happens, do you understand? Do _nothing_ that draws any attention to yourself, and I want Patronus reports from you every eight hours."

"Will do." Harry nodded again and glanced at Archie and Sirius. "I'll go get ready and talk to Leo, and we'll meet you at Grimmauld Place."

She disappeared out the kitchen door, and Aldon turned his attention to the rest. The Lord Potter seemed shocked at himself, as well as distressed, while Lina was wearing an expression of supreme annoyance.

"As for the rest of us…" She blew out an annoyed breath. "I suppose we wait for more information. I _hate_ waiting for more information."

Aldon agreed, his senses on a live wire. It felt like waiting was all they had done, and then something had happened, only for there to be more waiting.

XXX

Hannah ran her hands along the tough cloth of her new trousers. Archie had called them _jeans_, but she didn't like the way they restricted her movement, nor how cold they got as the shadows lengthened and the skies grew darker. She wrinkled her nose, her rabbit's heart beating with too much adrenaline, and she told herself to calm down as she slunk over the ridge.

She was in the lead—the one most likely to be able to hear something from a long way away, shift, and make a run for it while the others followed. She could feel Blaise's sharp attention behind her, with only a hint of discomfort at his own manner of dress. Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst were behind Blaise, fortunately a lot quieter than she was used to humans being. Even when quiet, without an animal's sharp ears or nose, humans tended to be loud.

It was later than any of them would have really liked. Hannah had been at the Warren when her father had asked for volunteers—two people to go into Wales and investigate with Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, a strict reconnaissance order. No one was sure what to expect, but the call had implied that they needed to be prepared for anything. Hannah had volunteered, because there were few spies better than her in rabbit form, and because she had volunteered, Blaise had leapt to go with her.

She would have preferred her usual team. Blaise had gotten better at surveillance-type missions over the past few months, but it wasn't where he was suited. He found them frustrating, and he always felt the need to impose meaning, analysis, or interpretation onto what he was watching when his job was observation only. She had told him, over and over again, that there was a time for observation and a time for analysis, and imposing meaning or analysis too early could lead them to dismissing things that didn't match with their preconceived ideas. On surveillance, their job was to stay clear-eyed, to observe and to report accurate information, and it was up to people like Rosier to do the analysis.

But it was almost an instinct for Blaise to analyse, so Hannah didn't like having him with her on surveillance missions. He missed too many small things, and small things could and often did make a difference. Blaise was, however, quite a lot better at infiltration and sabotage missions; the exact analysis habit that made him a weakness in surveillance gave him quick judgement and reaction time in a high-pressure situation, and his form, a large Italian black wolf, was suited to fighting. She had heard that he had fought his way out of a tight corner a few months ago, though he refused to talk about it with her.

People talked about it, though. Blaise had effectively moved into the Warren, not having anywhere else to go to ground after the coup, and Christian had caught him that day most of his way through a bottle of wine. Blaise was never messy while drinking, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue enough for him to say something needing to wash out the taste of human flesh from his mouth.

Christian had handed him a package of Fisherman's Friend without further comment, and Hannah knew for a fact that Blaise had five packages of the extra-strong mints in his rucksack behind her. He expected fighting in Wales, or he was prepared for it, and so Hannah could not truly be upset to be with Blaise rather than her usual surveillance team.

Hannah didn't know much about Harry Potter, and she had never met Lionel Hurst at all. She knew as much as she thought most people did about Harry Potter, who had been Rigel Black at school. Her yearmate, she knew that Rigel Black was a smart but quiet boy who was always willing to lend her a spare quill, who he always seemed to be in the middle of whatever strange was going on at Hogwarts. She remembered saving Rigel from drinking acid, and she remembered that Rigel had saved her from a nasty fall and the Sleeping Sickness in first year, and she had heard the rumours that he had saved them all from much more. She had liked Rigel, in the vague sort of way that she liked most people, but Rigel wasn't Harry Potter. Or, rather, Rigel was Harry Potter, but Harry Potter wasn't Rigel Black, and Hannah still wasn't sure how she felt about it all.

When they had arrived at Grimmauld Place, there had been a moment of awkwardness. They had met before, but not like this, and it took a moment for Potter to extend her hand to introduce herself as if Hannah had never met her before.

"Harry Potter," she had said with a small smile, an uncertain look in her green eyes. She didn't look at all like Rigel Black had looked—her hair was longer, almost shoulder-length, but half of it was tied at the back of her head. "Please, call me Harry."

A new start, Hannah guessed that meant, so she had taken Potter's hand with a cheerful smile. "Then, it must be Hannah."

Hurst had said nothing, only looking at her and Blaise like he was sizing them up. Hannah had stared back at him, wondering how someone so skinny could be the famed Rogue and King of Thieves, before Harry had made the introductions for him.

But both Harry and Hurst made for quiet and cooperative teammates, so Hannah didn't have any real complaints about being trailed by them either. They didn't know what they would be walking into, and if command thought that a mix of skills was best, then Hannah would accept it and work with whoever they told her to work with to complete the mission.

They just weren't who she was used to working with, that was all.

There wasn't enough cover. The grass clung to the ground, stubbornly resisting the wind that blew in their faces, as Hannah picked her way silently towards Wales. Harry and Hurst had Apparated her and Blaise about a mile away from the Welsh border, a few miles away from where the Weasleys lived, to avoid any monitoring or alarm spells. They had a long trek to get there, and the sun was already setting.

They would check on the Weasleys that night. Even if the Weasley parents weren't, for the sake of their younger children, formally part of the resistance, Harry and Blaise both thought that they would shelter them and provide whatever help they could without drawing attention to themselves. Once there, Harry had a passive scrying spell that they would use to identify any magical hotspots, or places of intense magical activity, and they would plan from there.

It wasn't a great plan, but Hannah was used to acting without a plan. The thing about specializing in surveillance work was that usually there was no clear plan—it was up to Hannah to bring back the information that others relied on to make their plans.

It was getting chilly. Hannah wrinkled her nose at the cold—the rest of her could be more than warm, but the tip of her nose was always cold. She touched it absently, looking down into the valley. Low scrubland, pocketed by small patches of trees and bushes, covered the hillsides, while the depths of the valley were dark. She didn't have the best night vision, but her hearing picked up only the wind. She turned, looking for Blaise to take lead—he had better night vision than she did, and his nose was far better than hers.

"There's something ahead." Harry had come close to whisper in Hannah's ear. Hannah took a step back, gesturing that she could hear her perfectly fine even without the physical motion. "My magic is reacting."

"Can you tell us anything more about it?" Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. "What do—do you mean, reacting?"

Harry shook her head. "It just says something is there—I get the sense of power, but that's all. Not good or bad. Just there."

"We don't have much choice," Hurst grunted, motioning forwards into Wales. "We have to know what's happening. Let's go."

"Blaise, take point?" Hannah asked, and Blaise slipped forward without reply, leading the way into the shadows of the valley.

It was even colder in the valley, and Hannah pulled her sweater more tightly around her. It was made of a thick, fluffy material, something that felt almost like her winter fur in rabbit form but was obviously man-made. Hannah would never wear real fur—while instances of shifters being caught in animal form and skinned for their fur were extremely rare, she couldn't help but imagine, every time she touched real fur, that it was one of her sisters, brothers, or cousins. Blaise, ahead of her in a black, canvas jacket over his own pair of jeans, kept a sharp eye on their surroundings.

There was a small creek running in the valley, barely deep or wide enough to even justify calling it a creek. The low-lying trees were a welcome sight, the bushes thick near the water. Hannah paused before her jump over the stream, just to breathe in the comforting scent of the trees, English holly and young oak and Scotch elm, listening to the comforting gurgle of water running over loose rock and stone.

Across the creek, Blaise choked, one hand coming protectively to his nose as he reeled. Hannah threw herself across, intent on her mate, and gasped the second she hit the other side. There was something, a magical wall, looming not far in front of them. If she was in her rabbit form, her fur would be standing up; in her human form, she could feel goosebumps rising on her arms, her shoulders, and her back. The comforting scent of woodland was gone, replaced with old magic and blood and power, and a curious chime was ringing in her ears. She shut her eyes, breathing in deeply, telling herself she needed to get used to it. Once she was used to it, it wouldn't bother her so much.

"Damn," Hurst said, his voice sounding like gravel, when he stepped across. Harry, beside him, had a tight expression on her face as she looked up.

"The Welsh border," Harry muttered, pushing ahead. "Come on. I doubt there will be anything between here and there—the wildlife will have been scared off, and I don't think he'll be bothered to have guards."

"Not a good sign." Hurst shook his head as he followed her. "A closer look?"

"I genuinely hope that Wales is not this bad," Blaise grumbled, taking in a breath and shuddering. "Are you all right, Hannah?"

"Could—could be better." Hannah nodded in the direction of Harry and Hurst. "I'll manage fine. We should go with them."

Old magic, blood, and iron. The scents hung in the air, strong enough for even Hannah's nose to pick up, strong enough that she saw Blaise pause by the riverbank to consider a Bubble-Head Charm. She shook her head in warning, and he grimaced: the Charm would blind his senses, and if anything happened, they needed every forewarning they could get.

The discordant chime rang in Hannah's ears, louder with every step she took towards the Welsh border. Neither were Harry and Hurst unaffected—while they didn't have the sharp animal senses that she and Blaise had, they didn't need them as they approached. The scent, the sounds were too overwhelming, the jingle in her ears sickening. As she approached, she could feel the oppressive heat of the wall against her core, pressing and making it hard for her to breathe.

Harry and Hurst were crouching down, examining the magical wall. Neither of them was unaffected by the magic—Harry's face was pale, while Hurst's jaw was clenched. Harry bit her lip and pulled out her wand, carefully poking at the spells.

"Anti-Apparition Ward," she heard her confirming. This close to the magical wall, Hannah could see it, dozens of magical sparks concentrated near the ground. "Concealment charms, those might be what are interfering with the communication spells? I'm not sure. There's also a bounding spell here, or something suggesting limitations, or containment? I don't know what it is, I'm not a strong magical theorist. My magic is just giving me impressions of what they feel like or do."

"Like something you'd find in a prison," Hurst added, his voice quiet.

"Can we get in?" Hannah interrupted, fighting her instinct to put her hands over her ears to block out the magical ringing. It wouldn't help. "Is—is it going to keep us out? Or are there alarm spells set to go off when we cross?"

Harry shrugged, twisting her wand to summon her Patronus, a lioness. "We can get in. Let me send a report, first. I think Voldemort wanted to leave it open for his followers to get in and out easily. The spellwork is complex enough that he likely can't put it up and take it down easily. I didn't feel anything like alarm spells, but I can't make any guarantees."

"Alarm spells or not, we don't have a choice," Hurst said, but he pulled out his wand anyway to check. "I don't see any of the main ones. Let's get going."

With that said, he stuck one hand through the barrier, and stepped forward into Wales. Harry shot him a worried glance but sent her Patronus off with a short message about the barrier and followed.

Hannah exchanged a look with Blaise, who only shook his head and followed.

The discordant chime fell away the further Hannah walked from the magical barrier, much to her relief. Aside from the magic, there was little differentiating Wales from England—the landscapes were the same, hills and valleys sparsely spotted with bushes and trees, all too far apart to provide more than any momentary cover. The sun was below the horizon now, and she picked her way after Blaise carefully, her senses on high alert.

Blaise paused in front of her, his nose flaring as he breathed in. "Burning," he snapped, changing directions. "That way."

"Ottery St. Catchpole is that way." Harry grimaced.

"That—That's a wizarding village, right?" Hannah whispered to Blaise, trying to keep her voice quiet enough that Harry and her friend wouldn't hear her.

"More of a hamlet," Blaise replied, similarly quiet. "Just a few houses and an Owl Post office, nothing like Hogsmeade or the Alleys."

Hannah nodded, her heart dropping. She couldn't hear anything unusual, but the silence was, in its own way, a threat. There should have been noise—the rustle of noise in the undergrowth, wildlife waking up to begin its nightly routine, even the sound of people on the wind. "We should—should go look, then."

Harry nodded, changing directions without further comment.

Ottery St. Catchpole had burned to the ground.

There had once been five buildings, Hannah could see. Of those, three were still standing, but they were burned out shells, husks of what they must have once been. The flames were gone, only the hint of red coals glowing in the darkness, but the scent of burned wood and human flesh hung heavily in the air. Blaise had already thrown up once approaching the village, and Hannah was hard-pressed to hold back tears. There was no smoke in the air, no sound, only grim death.

A young family had lived in the first house. A mother, a father, the burnt remains of a small child that couldn't have been older than her brother Luke. They had been tossed, discarded like rags, in what had been their sitting room. She couldn't make herself go on, she couldn't just leave these poor bodies there like that.

She stood, frozen, for what had felt like an eternity looking at the scene, just breathing through her tears. If it had just been her and Blaise, she wouldn't have worried about the tears—Blaise was shifter, Blaise knew that what appeared on the outside didn't always match what was on the inside. Blaise would be able to sense the resolve underlying her tears.

But Blaise was throwing up in what remained of the bushes outside.

"Leo and I will look at the other houses," Harry murmured, resting one hand on her shoulder. "You and Blaise can stay here, do what you need to do."

"I'll—I'll only be a few minutes," Hannah replied, taking another deep breath. She sniffed, just once, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Just—I need to find something to cover these bodies. And I'll look at the one—the one next door, too."

Harry hesitated, but she nodded. "Leo and I will look at the others, then."

It took Hannah only a few minutes to find a chest with barely-burnt blankets in it. There had to have been fire-proofing charms on the upper floors—much of the master bedroom had been almost untouched. She pulled out two, then found a blanket that had a picture of a Common Welsh Green on it for the little boy. Or girl, but probably a boy, based on what was in his bedroom.

She didn't even have a reason. It was all so needless—there were no reasons written in dead bodies and ashes, nothing to explain why this family, why _this_ house, this hamlet, or this community was targeted. This close to the Welsh border, families were a mix of Welsh and English, and to Hannah's knowledge, none of these people here had been part of the resistance. This was just an innocent family, caught in the crossfire. She went downstairs, taking the time to whisper a short prayer for the dead as she draped the blankets over the burnt bodies.

Next door was an elderly couple, again thrown in a careless pile in the front room. There was only one floor to this house, and the roof was mostly gone. She cast around, looking for a blanket to cover them, but this house hadn't fared anywhere near so well as the last one.

"Blood," Blaise choked out, staggering to her as Hannah finally decided that the other family wouldn't care if she used one of their blankets or sheets to cover their neighbours' bodies, and went back to the first house. "There's too much blood, everywhere, Hannah. I smell it in the air, on the ground. They didn't die here. They were killed, then dragged here and burnt with the village. There's too much blood, it stinks of it. We need to go—we need to get out."

"No. I haven't seen—seen any bloodstains." Hannah shook her head, firm. "Why is that? We can't—can't go yet. We need more information, we have barely—barely anything. We need to know more."

"This isn't our role," Blaise growled. "They need a military unit for this, not us."

Hannah shook her head again, ignoring him as she trod upstairs, found a plain, pale blue sheet, and walked back next door to cover the elderly couple.

Harry and Hurst were waiting on the street when she finished, their expressions closed.

"Survivors?" Hannah croaked, her voice trembling, but Harry only shook her head.

"Seven dead," Harry reported instead. "You?"

"Five."

"Dementors were here." Hurst's voice was low, but the words came without any inflection. "Someone tried to get away—we found one body outside, still breathing but soulless. I… dispatched them. That makes eight, for us."

Hannah grimaced, her eyes filling with tears again. Without a soul, there was no afterlife. That was why it was among the most brutal of wizarding punishments.

"Those poor people…" she whispered, swallowing the thick lump in her throat. One tear threatened to spill out, so she turned way, trying to wipe it away discreetly.

"We need to go," Blaise repeated to the others, putting one arm around her protectively. "Harry, they didn't just _kill_ the people here—they played with them, and then they threw the bodies in piles before setting everything on fire. There's blood everywhere, as if they killed by bleeding them all out and draining them dry. This isn't just execution or murder. It's sadism."

There was a pause, but Hannah turned back to the main group with a deep breath. "We—we can't, yet, Blaise. We don't have enough information. They're counting on us for good and complete information, and we don't have enough yet. Why—why so much blood? I didn't—didn't see any stains?"

"The scent of blood is everywhere," Blaise repeated stubbornly. "This is outside the scope of our mission brief. We're a surveillance and scouting unit; we need one of Lord Potter's units for this, if not several units."

"Whatever happened here, it happened at least half a day ago." Hurst looked around the circle, but Hannah couldn't read his expression. She didn't know him well enough. "It should be safe enough, for now."

Blaise turned to Harry. "Harry, surely you agree with me. We're four people—going forward, in these circumstances, isn't just stupid. It's idiotic and possibly suicidal. Whoever massacred these people, we're outnumbered. We know enough."

Hannah only shook her head, glaring at Blaise. "I'm not—I'm not going. Not yet."

Harry hesitated, glancing between Hannah and Blaise, then turning to look at Hurst. "Leo?"

Hurst shrugged. "A military force big enough to make a difference isn't going to pass unnoticed."

She grimaced, then looked around at the burned village around them. "I think we continue on. It looks like the danger is passed for now, but we should be careful. I'm sorry, Blaise—if you want to go back, you can, but I want to look at the Burrow at the very least. Let me send another Patronus."

"Remember the barrier," Hurst added roughly. "Might be good to send more than one."

"I'll send three. Hopefully they'll be able to reconstruct the message." In so saying, Harry drew her wand and summoned three Patronuses. "At Ottery St. Catchpole. Burned to the ground, thirteen dead, no survivors found. Signs of Dementor activity; found one person missing his soul among the dead. Blaise says there is blood everywhere, bodies tossed in a pile for burning. We're moving on to the Burrow."

The silver lionesses disappeared into the night, leaping towards England. Blaise looked supremely unhappy, but Hannah ignored him, taking one last, shaky breath and following Harry down the dirt road, presumably towards the Burrow. It felt wrong to just leave the bodies on the ground, covered only with blankets and sheets, but there wasn't much else that she could do. They had a mission, and she knew that however he felt, Blaise was bringing up the rear behind her.

The Burrow was another twenty-minute walk away, nestled in another valley between two low hills. It looked like it had once been a barn, or even a pigsty, but it had so many buildings stacked on top of it that Hannah couldn't be sure. The house was tall, at least six levels, leaning at a precipitous angle and threatening to topple.

She couldn't tell whether that was pre-existing or not. Someone had obviously tried to burn the building, but it was in better condition than the village. Harry picked up her pace, almost running towards the building, and Hannah shifted to keep up. She didn't like the signs, but the house visible from the village so maybe, maybe, the Burrow had not been so badly hit. It was a mile out of town, tucked away, and maybe there would be no bodies.

Let there be no bodies, she prayed. Let them find nothing at all, or better yet, clues to what had happened but no bodies. She didn't dare hope for more, judging from dark streaks marking the outside of the house.

The body of a red-headed man, balding, lay in the front entrance. Hannah shifted back, leaning over him. He was still breathing, and for a moment, Hannah dared to let herself hope—but his blue eyes were glassy and empty, and Hannah took two steps back, stunned.

She had never seen a Soulless before, but it was unmistakeable. He would breathe, but there was nothing left in there, nothing driving him.

Hurst crouched down beside her. "The Dementor's Kiss," he said succinctly, but Hannah didn't need the explanation. "I'll take care of it."

"I'll—I'll go farther inside," Hannah said hastily, clinging to the wall. She didn't want to hear this, she didn't want to see this. "Maybe—maybe inside…"

Hurst didn't reply, but she heard the Killing Curse ring out behind her a few moments later.

She didn't know the Weasleys—she had run into the five younger Weasleys, in one way or another, at school but she had never had any real reason to speak to any of them. They were all in Gryffindor, and Gryffindors generally didn't have much to do with Hufflepuffs. But someone would need to carry the news of this back to them. Someone would need to sit them down and tell them about the death of their father, and Hannah knew enough about the Weasleys to know that they were a close-knit family. They would be absolutely shattered.

The sitting room was empty, but there was a yell from the kitchen, and Hannah went running. She almost tripped over the first body, intent as she was on Harry, crouching on the floor beside a red-headed woman. Harry's wand was out, moving in a Healing spell, and Hannah left it to her as she turned around to look at the body she had almost fallen over.

"Vampire," she gasped, recognizing the signs immediately. If the stake driven through the heart were not clue enough, the canines were too long, hanging almost an inch over the lower lips. A vampire's jaw would distend, snake-like, to bite or swallow its victim as needed. This vampire's eyes were still open, wide in shock, and Hannah could smell the stink of blood hanging in the air.

That was what Blaise had been smelling in the village, she realized. Not blood itself, but vampires, who reeked of it no matter when they had last fed. There was probably not a hint of blood anywhere in the village, but it was a vampire ransacking. As far as Hannah knew, there had _never_ been a vampire ransack on British grounds—the Dark creatures were native to Eastern Europe, where they stayed.

Then Blaise was there, yanking Hannah away from the dead vampire, a hissing noise coming from his lips.

"Molly is still alive," Harry said, standing up from where she was crouched. She gestured to the line on the floor, a curious circular watermark. "It looks like she was injured, but she got away and used a Protection Potion to defend herself. From inside the barrier, she could spell the wood to stake the vampire. Someone needs to take her back to England—I don't think she was supposed to be left alive."

"They trusted the Dementors and the vampires to take care of her," Hurst said from the doorway. The man's face was pale, and he was gripping the doorframe hard enough to leave fingernail marks in the wood. "Neither of those groups are easily controlled, and that one is not one that I recognize from the Alleys. They're planning on massacring the Welsh—they're not making a distinction between people supportive of _Bridge_ or not, they've just decided to make the entire magical population of Wales their example for losing the Irish."

"Vampires," Blaise repeated, his grip around Hannah's wrist too hard. "Is this enough information? We need to go, and we need to go now. We don't have the manpower to handle a vampire and Dementor rampage."

Harry's mouth was a thin line. "You and Hannah go back. Leo and I are better equipped to handle any attacks, and someone should stay here and keep collecting information. I'm worried about what this means for messaging, too. Vampires can't go out during the day, and Aldon received the first Patronus mid-morning—the barrier might be delaying the messages as well as interfering with them. If we can get you across the barrier, you might get back faster than my Patronuses."

Blaise was silent for a moment, then he shook his head and sighed. "If it was anyone except you, Harry, I would argue more. But I can see that you're set, so I won't. Hannah and I will take Mrs. Weasley back, and we'll send assistance as soon as we can."

Hannah looked up at Blaise. Despite his calm, almost exasperated exterior, she could feel that he was going to drag her out of Wales if he had to knock her over the head and _Levicorpus_ both herself and Mrs. Weasley out. She looked around the kitchen, seeing overturned chairs and the broken table, the body of the vampire.

She specialized in surveillance missions, and this no longer even had a whiff of being a surveillance operation. She had no defensive skills of her own other than transforming and making a run for it, if that even counted as defense. "Okay," she said, letting out a breath. "Okay, we'll go, Blaise."

Potter was pulling four vials out of her bag—two white, two orange. "Take these Protection Potions with you. If you see the _hint_ of an attack, use them. They'll hold twelve hours, until sunrise—I don't think Voldemort's followers, or the vampires or Dementors will return, but just in case. It's only two and a half miles to the border in a straight line."

"Done," Blaise said, accepting the vials as he pulled out his wand to levitate Mrs. Weasley. "Be safe, both of you. Hannah, take point?"

Hannah nodded again, drawing in a breath as she looked over both Potter and Hurst carefully. "The gods—the gods go with you."

XXX

Archie couldn't decide where he should be waiting. He thought about waiting at home, but if any place was under scrutiny, it was Grimmauld Place. Technically, all their homes were under scrutiny, but there were more holes for them to escape the Ministry watchers at the big manors. Grimmauld Place was in a crowded city, and it didn't have the extensive grounds that Rosier Place and Queenscove boasted, nor the walls and other, centuries-old fortifications that Potter Place did. Grimmauld Place only had convenience, since it was smack-dab in the centre of London.

They had thought about handling the Ministry surveillance issue creatively. It wouldn't have taken much to hide away all the most magical parts of the townhouse, remove the ward keeping it from Muggle eyes, and then sneak someone into the Muggle city records to include their property in the registers. Then, they could take the very logical step of calling Scotland Yard on the rotation of Ministry officials hovering just outside their front gates. Archie had passed a few minutes daydreaming about the possible results: they could be taken to the nearest station for questioning, or to the nearest hospital for mental delusions, or at minimum, there would be a very uncomfortable few minutes for whoever they targeted.

But it wouldn't work. The Muggle bobbies would probably just be Obliviated, if nothing worse happened, and they'd risk breaking the Statute of Secrecy for nothing.

If anything happened, Harry and Leo probably wouldn't be returning to Grimmauld Place first, Archie decided. Even leaving, they had taken the Portkey Hub back to Potter Place, then had Apparated from there.

He then thought about hanging out at Potter Place, hovering around playing with Addy, but there was also no guarantee that anything that happened would go there first. Harry and Leo would almost certainly Apparate back to Potter Place when they came back, but Archie didn't think they would be back that quickly. Technically, too, the shifters reported to him and Dad, but they would probably Apparate to their own headquarters before coming to Grimmauld Place. But before any of them got back, Archie expected that they would be sending Patronus reports, which suggested only one location.

Aldon was their spymaster. He was the one who was most likely to be able to put Harry's reports together with whatever he was getting from their other spies, the ones that he wouldn't refer to by anything except code names. The information that Harry would be putting together would be sensitive, and both Lina and Moody were at Rosier Place. Aldon had also gotten the first message out of Wales, so it was a good bet that he would be the recipient of any further messages. Dad would let him know straightaway if anything happened at Grimmauld Place, and Uncle James could be counted on to let Dad know straightaway if anything happened at Potter Place, so it was probably best that Archie hang out at Rosier Place bothering Aldon.

He needed to review the Healing protocols for Rosier Place anyway. Rosier Place had no in-house Healer, which meant that it was all the more important that Archie make sure they were stocked with the right emergency Potions and supplies, and that they have at least a few people who knew first aid.

"All four of the Stormwings have basic Healing training," Aldon commented, meeting him in the formal dining room. It didn't matter how many times Archie came to Rosier Place—it still seemed too large, less like a home than either Grimmauld Place or Potter Place. It felt like a higher-class, nicer version of the hotel that they had stayed at during the Tournament. "As well as Aman Kaur, the Blake & Associates Defense Mistress. I hardly think this is urgent, Archie."

"You knew this was coming, Al." Archie grinned, a little manic, waving his clipboard with his review checklist and a pen in Aldon's face. "Your manor is the last one on my list. I'm running a review of your Healing protocols."

Aldon shook his head. Everything Archie said had been the truth, but he still wasn't surprised that Aldon could see through him. "I will send you a message when I hear anything. You know that."

"I'd rather be here anyway." Archie let the smile disappear. "I feel like I should be doing something, and I might as well review of your Healing protocols."

Aldon sighed. "Very well. We have Potions stocks in each of this room, in the sitting room in family quarters, and in the hallway of the guest quarters. Each potion is labelled, and as I said, all four of the Stormwings and Aman have basic Healing training."

"You know I'll need to review that for myself, Al." Archie could see the problems already, though—all of those trained in basic Healing were fighters, those most likely to be caught in any conflict and be unable to Heal anyone at all. It had been a problem not only at Rosier Place, but at Queenscove and two out of three other safehouses.

Aldon shook his head again, clapping his hands twice. One of his house-elves appeared. "Dolly, would you mind accompanying the Heir Black? He is conducting a review of our Healing protocols here."

"Of course, my lord," the house-elf murmured with a curtsey, and gestured for Archie to follow her through the manor.

In retrospect, Archie realized, he probably should have just told Aldon he planned on hovering there waiting for information. Aldon would have been annoyed, but he probably wouldn't have refused him, and Archie couldn't concentrate as he sorted through each of the Healing potion stores. Aldon did keep his Potions stores well-stocked, though he didn't recognize the neat cursive marking each vial.

He was on edge the entire time he sorted through the store, slowly checking each potion off the checklist that he and Hermione had put together, with Neal's help, of what every safehouse needed to have on hand. Aldon had been thorough in his preparation, including several potions not in the list and more than was strictly required, all of which were neatly organized and easily located. This stockpile alone met the requirements Archie had put together, and Aldon had two more stores for him to go through.

For the size of his manor, Archie thought it was necessary. He would need to recommend that at least two more people at Rosier Place, preferably non-combatants, be trained in first aid. Aldon had a large estate, though unlike the others he had fewer people and relied more on magical methods of defense than any other safehouse.

As he moved from the first stockpile to the one in the guest quarters, he realized that he was listening, waiting for something, anything, to happen. His ear was always cocked, waiting for a yell, and he kept turning his head, looking for the flash of silver of a Patronus messenger. He knew he wasn't likely to see it, or hear it, but he was looking for it anyway.

Dad was at home at Grimmauld Place, he reminded himself as he sorted through the second stock, mechanically checking every label. Dad wouldn't leave him out of the loop, and neither would Uncle James. And he was here, at Rosier Place, and whatever he said Aldon knew perfectly well why he was here. He would hear about things when they happened, as they happened, and he had to resign himself to it.

He wished resigning himself to it were easier. He had tried to tell himself that no news was good news, but in this case, it really wasn't. He and Aldon and everyone already knew that something bad had happened—the only question was, how bad was it? A very small part of him wanted to dodge the news, because finding out what it was would make it real, but the rest of him said that whatever had happened was already happening and it would continue to happen whether he knew about it or not.

He wanted to know.

"Heir Black," the house-elf interrupted him primly, as he was studying the last basket. Unsurprisingly, the second stock of potions was identical to the first, down to the organization and labelling. "The Lord Rosier requires your presence immediately, in the first formal reception room."

Archie made a face at the elf. He had already tried to tell her to call him Archie, and tried to strike up small talk, but she had kept her responses short and proper. It stood to reason that Aldon's house-elves would be as uptight as their Lord. "Okay, just give me a second—"

"It is an emergency," the house-elf said, promptly pushing the basket back into the rack and grabbing him by the wrist. She twisted, pulling him with her in Apparition, and the first thing Archie saw when he nearly fell forwards was Molly Weasley, breathing shallowly in a magically induced coma.

"What the _hell?!_" He snapped, his eyes going immediately to Aldon who was standing nearby. Lina was there, her brown eyes intent, standing beside Blaise Zabini and Hannah Abbott, whom Archie only recognized from the treaty negotiations over the summer. Blaise's expression was half-fear, half-anger, while Hannah's eyes threatened to spill tears. "What _happened?!_"

"Despite how it looks, Archie, they just arrived," Aldon replied, shooting him a warning look. "Your father is on his way, as is the Lord Potter. I'd rather Zabini and Abbott give only one report, rather than having to repeat themselves."

Archie shook his head, pulling out his wand and going to kneel over by Mrs. Weasley. He had only met the woman once, and under a disguise at that. "Someone is going to have call Percy. And the twins."

"Master Moody is already on his way."

"Fine."

It had to have been Harry who set Mrs. Weasley in a magical coma, considering that none of the others had any in-depth Healing knowledge and the coma seemed to have been in place for about an hour. It looked like her injuries were mostly blood loss and a magical draining, but there was something odd about the wounds—they weren't very serious, with nothing hitting a major vein or artery, so they ought to have closed on their own. It was as if there was a poison or other drug keeping the blood from clotting, but he couldn't identify anything. He Summoned a Blood Replenishing Potion from Aldon's closest stockpile, spelling it into Mrs. Weasley with quick efficiency, then Summoning bandages. They would have to hold until they identified the poison.

"What is it?" He heard Dad say as he came into the room, then a sharp intake of breath.

"Blood loss, magical stabilization coma, and magical draining, but the magical draining will heal naturally once we deal with the blood loss," Archie recited, standing up. "The issue is that there's a poison affecting the wounds—they should have clotted and closed on their own, but they haven't."

"Yes, vampire bites do that," Lina said, sounding almost delighted as she pulled out her wand. "They carry the poison in their teeth, to keep the blood flowing easily while they feed. If the victim gets away, it also marks them, leaves a blood trail for them to follow. There's an antidote, I have a few in my bags from my tour in Georgia—let me Summon one. We'll need a stock of them."

"Vampires," Uncle James snapped. A vial of potion came whizzing into the room, and Archie caught it and kneeled back down beside Mrs. Weasley, moving around her to where he could administer the antidote while watching the discussion. "What do you mean, _vampires?_ There's only once been a vampire attack on British soil, and it was in the 1700s."

"I think we ought to allow Zabini and Abbott to report," Aldon interrupted, his voice sharp. "I can say that I've had no further word from Cedric but did receive a communication a couple hours ago from Harry when she was crossing into Wales. She stated that there was a magical barrier at the border, including an Anti-Apparition Ward, a mix of Concealment Charms, and some sort of physical limiting spell. I assume she was unable to identify it further."

"Her friend—Mr. Hurst—said it was like something they'd find in a prison, but they didn't know." Hannah drew a deep breath. "It didn't stop us going through, and there weren't any alarm spells."

There was a brief pause, and Aldon glanced at Dad and Uncle James, who had fallen silent. He looked back at the two shifters, nodding. "Go on."

"Crossing into Wales, we walked for about a mile before I caught the hint of burning in the air. We changed directions from the Weasleys and followed the scent to the main village of Ottery St. Catchpole." Blaise's voice was quiet as he picked up the narrative. "It was burned to the ground. I assume, Lord Rosier, that you didn't receive any Patronus from Harry from there?"

Aldon shook his head. "I did not, no."

"The Patronuses are being delayed, then—she sent three." Blaise stopped, gathering his thoughts. "In any case, at Ottery St Catchpole, there were signs of both vampire attack and Dementor activity, though I did not know the former at the time."

"What do you mean?" Dad asked.

"I could smell the blood, but I misinterpreted it as simply blood rather than vampires," Blaise replied flatly. "I ought to have reconsidered—Hannah even commented on the fact that she hadn't seen any blood—but I ignored her."

"Not your fault. Vampires in Britain are rare, and it's a logical conclusion." Dad nodded for him to continue.

By the expression on his face, Archie thought Blaise was puzzled by the response, but he didn't comment. "Harry and her friend found a Soulless in Ottery St Catchpole—not dead, only missing a soul. The town had only four houses and the Owl Post office, but there were no survivors. We also found no trace of the owls."

"We can't—can't guarantee there weren't any survivors," Hannah corrected, sounding a little numb. "We don't know the community well enough, it's possible someone did get away, but we didn't find any survivors. I located the bodies of three in the first house, and two in the second. Harry reported seven dead in the houses that she and Mr. Hurst investigated, in addition to the Soulless, for a total of thirteen dead."

"That's right." Blaise glanced around the circle. "Then we went to the Burrow. The Burrow was in better condition than the village—I suspect they were out of the way enough that only a few Dementors and vampires happened to go in their direction. Arthur Weasley had suffered the Dementor's Kiss—"

"Mr. Hurst… took care of him," Hannah murmured, looking away. "May he rest in peace."

"And we found Molly Weasley in the kitchen. Harry thinks that she was able to get a Protection Potion around her, then she killed the vampire coming after her from behind the shield. We also found the body of the vampire there, staked through the heart."

"I thought they exploded or disappeared when they died," Dad muttered.

"No, they combust in sunlight," Lina replied, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Dhampiri practice is to kill and drag into open for the sunlight to dispose of the bodies. Indoors, there's no reason the body would have disappeared."

"Why do you look so pleased?" Uncle James' eyebrows narrowed in suspicion. "If Voldemort has recruited vampires—"

"If Voldemort has recruited vampires, we have grounds to call in a group of highly trained military professionals who _specialize_ in killing vampires," Lina retorted, leaning forward. "Do you have any idea how deadly a dhampiri war unit is? We need the help, and this is one of the best possible things that could have happened for us."

"_Best_," Uncle James repeated, sounding both angry and horrified all at once. "In case you've missed it, Lina, there are vampires on a rampage through Wales. People are dying."

"Yes," Lina straightened, looking up at Uncle James with a look of hard, cold calculation. "But this was a _critical_ error on Voldemort's part. He needed to make a statement, but all of the other possible targets were too risky for him: the Scots are tightly bonded in their clans, they hold eight separate Clanhomes, and they fortified. Hogwarts School is also in Scottish Clan territory. He knows little about Queenscove, but even in a short time, the Lord Queenscove has managed to set a reputation for himself and his House as warriors, and there are those pesky international connections. Grimmauld Place probably benefitted from its location in London, where he would be risking a breach of Statute of Secrecy, and Rosier Place has Moody and I, and is a historically Dark house—many of Voldemort's followers hesitate to attack Aldon, much as they would any of their own. The Welsh were the weakest target connected to the Irish, but because they were the weakest, he had to do something else to create terror and set an example. Allying with Dark creatures like vampires are a symbol, as is this massacre. We need to use it."

"Use it?" Dad's face was dark. "What do you suggest?"

"Calling in the Order, for one." Lina looked up in thought. "Announcements need to be made, with as much evidence as possible, to the international community. This will boost our claim that he's a usurper, and a formal war crimes indictment in the International Criminal Court, even if it does nothing to him directly, gives ground for other nations to provide support beyond humanitarian aid. MACUSA, in particular, has a reputation for disregarding sovereignty under the responsibility to protect doctrine if they believe the population at large is at risk. Internally, if we can get the news out and people believe us, it could be a tipping point for recruitment and internal resistance as well. Voldemort thought that going overboard would terrify people into submission—but it often only does the opposite. If the Lower Alleys were not _jus ad bello_, this is."

That all sounded good, and Archie agreed with it, but it was all part of the bigger picture. The poison's antidote was taking effect, so he corked the remains of the vial, putting it aside to look at later. "And the Welsh? What do we do about the Welsh? We have to help them."

There was a long, drawn-out silence. Uncle James looked at Lina, whose smile had disappeared. Aldon was expressionless, though Archie saw that he was digging his fingernails into his palms. Blaise had his arm around Hannah's shoulders, and she was discreetly wiping tears off her cheeks. Dad's eyebrows had pinched together, heavy, an expression of foreboding.

"We likely can't take apart the barrier," Aldon started slowly, shaking out his shoulders. "At least, not in any reasonable amount of time. Based on the extremely limited description I have, no one would have the power to disassemble the barrier without tracking down his power source or sources—the keystones, or power stones."

"Is taking the barrier down necessary?" Dad leaned forward, thinking. "It leaves a bad taste in my mouth to do nothing. Even a few units…"

"No," Lina said. "Even a few of our units will not be enough to handle Dementors and a vampire rampage, as well the forces that Voldemort himself has clearly committed to the strike. If we wanted a fighting chance, we would need to commit a very sizeable portion of our forces into the defense of Wales, and I don't even know if that would be enough."

"Remember the delay in the Patronus messages," Blaise added roughly. "Whatever happened—much of it has already happened."

"But we still have to go." Uncle James' voice was hard. "We are _not_ leaving the Welsh to die. Do we know where they are? We don't need to fight them head-on, but we need to do something to help. Anything."

"I can contact Saoirse and the Irish," Archie volunteered. "They aren't really talking to us, but this is clearly retaliation for their actions, and both Saoirse and Cedric acknowledged a connection at treaty negotiations. The worst they can say is no, but I'll do my best to guilt them into helping."

Lina shook her head, her mouth twisting into a grimace. "We would not be talking about a retaliating strike," she warned. "In these circumstances, it is just not good move. The best move would be to wait for information, collect evidence, then use it to our best advantage."

"We are _not_ sacrificing those people, Lina!" Uncle James roared as he glared at her, and the air in the room suddenly felt heavy, primed to explode. "I'm in command of the forces, and I am _going_ to order units to Wales. You can either help, or Sirius and I will put together whatever plan we can ourselves, and whatever happens, happens."

Lina stared at Uncle James for a minute, then blew out an aggravated breath. "Very well! With the forces we have, and what we know, this isn't going to be a war operation. This will be an extraction and rescue operation only for whatever survivors we can find. Lord Potter, choose your units—I recommend making the mission volunteer only and selecting for the most adaptable people you have. Archie, contact the Irish and say whatever you need to say to them to get them to help. Aldon, call your friend in Serbia, and get him and his unit in Wizarding Britain by the fastest means possible—I want them here yesterday, but it'll probably take them a week, if not two. And Sirius, call DCI Singh from Scotland Yard—we'll need a cover story to keep the Muggles out of the wizarding areas of Wales for the time being. We'll worry about the messaging and the ICW later. Moody, the trainees and I will talk over a reasonable-ish, only-moderately-suicidal plan."

"How long?" Archie found himself asking. "How long do we have? I can Patronus Saoirse right now, but it's almost eleven at night and I don't know how fast she'll answer."

"It'll be at least a day," Uncle James said, running one hand through his hair. "I'll need to meet with each of the units tomorrow, collect volunteers…"

"We meet tomorrow night then," Lina snapped waspishly. "Tomorrow night at 1800, here at Rosier Place. It may well be too late by then anyway, but at least we'll have tried."

XXX

Pansy staggered into the copse of trees, gripping at the cold stone around her neck. It was a beautiful piece, one that Pandora had selected with a hard, vindictive sort of pleasure out of the Malfoy family collection. Voldemort had confiscated them all, of course, along with thousands of other family heirlooms, but Pandora, Pandora had been permitted to select a few key pieces for herself.

Bellatrix had been nearly blind with jealousy, a factor that Pandora had treated with mild amusement as she took her time picking through the prized jewel collections of two dozen noble families. She hadn't even blinked at her former Housemates or classmates, when they handed their family possessions to her for consideration.

A few people had tried to keep a few pieces, here and there. Alesana Rookwood had been one—just one ring, a prized wedding ring studded with rubies that had been worn by her mother. She had been caught, of course she had been caught, and her screams had echoed from the ceilings of Malfoy Manor. Edmund Rookwood had begged on his knees for it to stop, that Voldemort could take everything, if only the torture stopped. Voldemort had glanced at Pandora, who had only shrugged as she sorted through the other Selwyn family jewels. Mostly rubies, for them, which reminded Pandora too much of blood. Rubies were an ugly gemstone, with nothing like the clean and beautiful purity of diamonds.

"What have they done to deserve your indulgence?" she had asked, uncaring, then she hadn't blinked when Bellatrix subjected the former Head Girl at Hogwarts to another two rounds of the Cruciatus. As Pandora, she had found the whole scene vaguely distasteful, an embarrassing and shameful act, and had thought that Edmund Rookwood far too soft for trying to intercede. No wonder the Rookwoods hadn't earned any favour that they needed to climb Voldemort's ranks.

Pansy, far below the surface, had shuddered. Her heart had gone out to Edmund, her childhood friend, and she hated watching him grovel on his knees. She wished, whatever else had happened, that he and Alice were on the outside with Aldon. They had been best friends once, though they had fallen out sometime in the past year. She wished they hadn't, and that Edmund and Alice had split off with their friend months before—but she knew why they hadn't. Edmund had just married and was looking for stability to start a family, and Aldon was looking to remake the world into one that suited him better by any means necessary.

But if they had gotten out then, they would be safe now.

She finally managed to get the necklace off herself. It was a diamond, a stone the size of her thumb, well-carved and reflecting light in a dozen different directions. She wanted to throw it, toss it away in these calm, beautiful woodlands, but she couldn't. It was a symbol of Voldemort's favour, and he would be looking for her to be wearing it later. It was all she could do to take it off, leave it swinging for these few minutes that she was able to steal for herself.

She had done terrible things. She was the one who had handed Voldemort a list of potential targets, including the Welsh, for him to retaliate at instead of the Irish. She was the one who had thrown out comments on the advantages and disadvantages of each of her suggested targets. She was the one who had noted that the big advantage of the Welsh as a target was that they, unlike the others, didn't have a major stronghold to fall back to, nothing that could weather a stand-off. Pandora had also considered that to be both a disadvantage of the Welsh as a target, because Voldemort needed to show his power, and he could do _better_.

Voldemort had disagreed. There were other ways that he could shock and awe the populace to make a statement, and he had found them. By God, he had found them.

Pansy hadn't even been able to get away to send a warning. As the planning intensified, and as her own status in Voldemort's Ministry rose, she was less and less able to get away. Voldemort liked having her near, and Pandora was all too happy to oblige, but more than that, she was also watched closely by Voldemort's other followers. Bellatrix Lestrange hated her, wanting her position by Voldemort's side, and it was her eyes that tracked her the most. But her nasty son, Caelum Lestrange, also watched her, as did Dawlish, Mulciber, Travers, and half a dozen of Voldemort's other inner circle.

She needed to send a warning now, in these few minutes she had, and she fumbled for her wand. She didn't know if it would get through, but she needed to try. She was in the woods, alone for just a few, precious moments, and she couldn't waste the opportunity. Her group had captured one of the Welsh wizards, and on Pandora's orders, one of her more eager group members, DeLuca, had tortured a new location out of him. The Welsh were gathering, he swore, in Snowdonia. Snowdon peak was the most scared place for the Welsh, he said, and any survivors would be headed there.

Her hand was shaking. When she was Pandora, she could watch and even order torture with no feelings, but as Pansy, the images haunted her. The dead bodies, the dead _children _strewn around her, the blonde-haired man with a blunt nose like a chisel, screaming and writhing on the ground.

"_Expecto Patronum_," she whispered, flicking her wand.

Nothing.

She took a deep breath, trying to banish the picture of dead bodies, the man at her feet, the fires that sent smoke spiralling into the skies, from her mind. There had been screaming, so much screaming—mothers and fathers crying for their children, and little girls and boys wailing for their parents. It was too much, too loud, even if it was silent in this small grove of trees.

Home, she reminded herself. Parkinson Palace was across the island, on the eastern coast of England, and it had woods just like this. This was why she was doing this, so that her home would be safe. Her home, and her mother, and Draco. Her creatures at home, her unicorn herd, her Snidgets and the merfolk colony.

"_Expecto Patronum_," she said again, willing her swallow to appear.

A wisp of silver, then nothing.

She took another deep breath, willing the calm of the trees around her to fill her. She had only a few minutes—she had told her group that she needed to use the facilities, such as they were, and she had already wasted enough time. Aldon had to know, and she didn't have time for an owl. Nature had always had a calming effect on her before. Home. She was home, and her unicorns were just around the corner.

She wondered if her unicorns would ever come close to her ever again.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ she hissed, shaking her wand in desperation, but there was no surprise this time when nothing appeared.

"Parkinson!" she heard DeLuca yelling. He couldn't see her in her current state of presumed undress—Voldemort would kill him if he did—but he was too close. He had to have come looking for her. "What are you doing, throwing up in there?"

She was out of time.

"It would be none of your business if I were," she snapped, falling back into herself.

She was Pandora Parkinson, who had never quite fit in the mold that had been set out for her. She was Pandora Parkinson, who was overjoyed to live in a world where she could do as she pleased, where playing a soft game of lies and manipulation wasn't necessary, where her power was her own and not controlled by a man. She was Pandora Parkinson, Voldemort's trusted advisor and sometimes, his lover.

She was Pandora Parkinson, and she was on a mission to cleanse Wales.

XXX

Caelum had abandoned his unit. They had found another cluster of wizarding families, and his mother was having _fun_. Voldemort had set no limits, this mission, and the most violent corners of their organization were taking the opportunity to explore the depths of their cruelty.

Caelum had been assigned to go with them only for informational purposes. His orders were _not_ to stop his supposed allies from going too far, only to ensure that whatever good information their victims spilled as they begged for their lives made it to Voldemort. Voldemort trusted his mother, Mulciber and Travers to torture and enjoy it—but he did not trust them to know good information when they heard it, nor to report it back to him.

Snowdonia, their last victim had screamed. It was only one word, and Caelum had no idea whether his mother had seen the echo of truth around it. People screamed all sorts of things under torture, a dozen different locations for their friends, their allies, and much of it was nonsense. He had heard Cardiff, Swansea, Aberystwyth, Holyhead, Caenarfon... but when the man had wailed out the word _Snowdonia_, Caelum had caught the flash of shame in his eyes before his mother cast another Cruciatus Curse at the man. _Pizdech_.

A person did not feel ashamed when screaming out random locations or nonsense. Shame came when they gave it up, when there was truth, and that was why Caelum had been sent with his mother's group.

He hated the man for giving it up. By giving it up, Caelum would now have to report it to Voldemort—if he didn't, Voldemort would find out another way, through another of the groups or from his mother, Mulciber or Travers if any of them had caught the look, and there would be questions.

Caelum could not afford questions.

He was close enough to the border—Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant was barely a league from Voldemort's wall, that madman's pride and joy, his way of preventing any aid from reaching the Welsh until it was far, far too late. The magic rumbled against his core, uncomfortable for only the few seconds it took for Caelum to pass over and draw his wand.

"_Expecto Patronum," _he growled, shutting his eyes to concentrate on the gurgle of a bubbling potion, the scent of ingredients swirling around his cauldron, the calm peace he felt as he reached out with his magic to check for completeness. He thought about afternoons in a clean, orderly laboratory, about the Potions Guild, about arguing with an annoying halfblood girl about magic and things that were and were not possible. He thought about serenity, and the serenity he could find in a Draught of Peace.

His spotted hyena trickled out of his wand, panting and waiting.

"Message," he said, his voice chilly. "To Aldon Rosier. The Welsh are collecting at Snowdonia. Voldemort will be waiting. _Do not come_."

XXX

_AN: Well, that was a fun chapter, wasn't it? Kudos to the person who said "things usually get worse before they get better." I don't think truer words have ever been spoken, and I laughed like a madwoman when I saw it. Also, I actually had to dig out my notes from my Law of Armed Conflict class to write some parts of this, which is absolutely terrifying, and that was not what I thought writing this work would require me to do. Wow, I super hated that class, and also the responsibility to protect (R2P) doctrine is not really widely accepted (other than by the USA who will rely on it if they really want/need to intercede somewhere), because it basically ignores sovereignty entirely. And the law of armed conflict is kind of awful on civil wars anyway. _

_Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm, beta-reader extraordinaire (no you cannot borrow her), and to the few of you faithful who always read and comment! _


	8. Chapter 8

Despite agreeing to Patronus Saoirse right away, Archie didn't. He returned to Grimmauld Place, and he stood in his bedroom, wand raised, for fifteen minutes trying to think about what to say.

He couldn't just ask her to come over—even to get her to come the last time, just after the Irish revolt, had been a push. It had taken five Patronuses and two days before she deigned to respond, and the last one had said pretty clearly that she and Sean were only coming over to Britain as a personal favour to Archie himself, as a symbol of their respect for him for standing trial.

Hermione thought that was a lie. "They probably wanted a reason to come and put their ultimatum down anyway," she had said disapprovingly. "They just needed time to decide what their demands were and what more they wanted from us."

Even if that was true, they hadn't responded to any of his messages or owls since then. Indeed, the _Irish Gales_ had ignored the comments of _Bridge_ and _The Daily Prophet _in their entirety, focusing instead on the progress of the new Wizarding Irish state. Smart of them, according to Hermione—what did any nation care what another nation's paper said about them?

He needed to contact them, and he needed them to _respond. _He needed them to agree to send help, preferably of the military kind, and he didn't have much to offer. How was he supposed to approach it? Was he supposed to be pleading, or disappointed in them, or angry, or what? How much guilt was he supposed to pour on, right off? He needed to save some to trip them with later, assuming he got them to answer him at all. What was he supposed to _say_ to get the Irish to talk to him, let alone help?

He stood, thinking, for about five minutes before he did the thing he always did when he didn't know the answer. He summoned his Patronus, called Hermione and asked for help.

Her otter appeared within seconds. "I don't really know Saoirse Riordan," she replied, though her voice was thoughtful, completely ignoring the time. "We were both in the BSA, but she was at Ilvermorny, and Tobias MacLean was their representative. They were in the same year, or near to, so he would know best. Try him."

Archie cursed, checking the time. It was half past eleven at night by now, and he knew that Toby was staying at the Boyd Clanhome on the outskirts of Glasgow. Late or not, he did need to contact Saoirse right away. With the next meeting only eighteen hours away, he didn't have any time to lose.

He didn't know if Toby would still be awake, and he didn't want to risk sending a Patronus now. As messengers, Patronuses couldn't wake people up if they were asleep, though they would linger until the message was delivered. This was probably too complicated to be done through Patronus messages anyway, and Archie needed Toby's help _now_.

"I'm going to the Boyd Clanhome!" he yelled, flying downstairs, not caring that not only could Dad hear him, but the backup unit led by Kingsley Shacklebolt residing on the third floor could probably hear him, too. "Need to consult Toby!"

"Do you need company?" Dad yelled back.

"No, should be fine! I'll try to be back within a couple hours, I just need to talk to Toby about how to deal with Saoirse!"

He had to look up the code to get to the Boyd Clanhome—kept in the kitchen away from the Portkey Hub itself for security reasons, and to be burned immediately if Grimmauld Place was ever attacked. He had most of the main codes he used memorized, but he had never gone to any of the Scottish Clanhomes.

It was almost six minutes before the Boyd Clanhome responded, six very impatient minutes which had Archie clinging to the silver ring through loud humming and pressure. Not very promising, in the event of an attack, so he'd have to mention it. Still, with a pop, he appeared in a room he has never seen before.

It was freezing, and as Archie's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he shivered. The walls were made of stone, the room stark and bare—it looked like a storage shed, or another outbuilding. A tiny window let in a brisk chill, and Archie heartily regretted not grabbing a sweater or jacket. Too late, now.

He wrenched the door open, hoping that someone would come and meet him. He didn't care who it was, he just didn't want to wander around the Boyd grounds aimlessly searching for Toby. As far as he knew from Chess, who had mentioned it offhand when he last visited her, most of the Clans had expansive grounds, a main house and several outbuildings, including small cottages, storage sheds, and former animal sties. Given options, most of them had stationed their Portkey Hubs in outbuildings some distance from the main house.

The wind ripped through his long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and he was immensely relieved to see someone running towards him. He didn't recognize them, but he was relieved nonetheless to see them.

"Andrew Boyd," the man introduced himself. He was tall and thin, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and spoke with a thick Glaswegian accent that Archie needed a moment to decipher. "A call from Grimmauld Place, at this hour? It must be serious."

"I need to see Toby," Archie replied, hurrying towards the man. "I'm sure the Clan heard about the Weasleys?" The Twins, along with their radio station, stayed at the Boyd Clanhome, though they were now with their brothers at Potter Place in mourning for their father. Archie wished he could have gone to them to express his condolences and provide some comfort, but he had work to do. He didn't know whether his comfort would have been welcome in any case; a leader of _Bridge_ he might be, but with the sole possible exception of Percy, the Weasleys were more Harry's friends than his.

Something flickered in the man's eyes, and he led the way not to the main Clanhome but to one of the small cottages that Archie could see dotting the grounds. "We did, but Master Moody provided few details to the rest of us."

"Voldemort struck in Wales," Archie told him briefly, knowing that the Scottish Clans had been warned for at least a week and all of them had been waiting for something like this to happen. The Clans response had been to plan a united effort among themselves—though their fighting force was only about a hundred, the same size as Uncle James' force had been at Malfoy Manor, they had nearly twice that number prepared to act in support roles, a deep reservoir of skill and talent bolstering their defenses. "Probably at least a day ago—there were spells to prevent contact with us, we only heard something was wrong this morning. Two of our scouts came back and reported… well."

Boyd nodded, grim-faced, coming to his own conclusions. "And you need Toby because…?"

"He went to school with Saoirse Riordan, and we need her help."

Boyd stopped in front of a cottage, pounding on it with an open hand. "MacLean! You're a Scot—what are you doing in bed before midnight?"

A minute or so, and Toby opened the door, wearing t-shirt and sweatpants. His short, blond hair was mussed, but his brown eyes were alert. He looked ready to launch a biting retort at Archie's companion, then he spotted Archie.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly serious.

"You heard about the Weasleys, right?" Archie said, pushing his way inside the small cottage, which had been taken over by recording and broadcast equipment that he didn't recognize. This had to be the headquarters of _The Underground_. "Voldemort struck in Wales—sealed it off, too. I need your help."

"Mine?" Toby was bewildered, but he stood aside to invite Andrew in as well. "I'm not a fighter, Archie."

"I'm heading back on patrol," Andrew said lightly, nodding towards Archie. "Can you make sure he gets back to the Portkey Hub when you're done?"

"Sure thing."

Archie was looking around the room, seeing nowhere where he could sit down. It looked like the radio equipment had completely taken over the living space, and he didn't want to touch anything in case it did anything.

"Let's go to the kitchen, it's where the twins and I usually plan things and so on," Toby said, pushing him in the direction of a doorway. "I can make tea?"

"No need," Archie replied hurriedly. "I don't really have time, Toby, sorry. I need to know more about Saoirse Riordan—I need to know how to approach her so that she'll help us on a rescue mission to Wales. You were at school with Saoirse, in the BSA with her and on the Ilvermorny Triwizard Team with her and everything, so you know her better than we do."

Toby blinked. "Uh… I mean, I'll help you all I can, Arch, but… What do you know about Ilvermorny?"

It was Archie's turn to blink. "As much as anyone who didn't go there does, I think? It's the biggest school in America. I visited there once for a dance competition, remember?"

"Yeah, but…" Toby sighed, and he reached for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. He offered one to Archie, who shook his head. "Okay, so Ilvermorny was founded in the 1600s by Isolt Sayre and James Stewart. Isolt Sayre was a descendant from a very old, pureblooded family in Britain; James Stewart was a No-Maj."

"I know that." Archie frowned. He didn't see the point of Toby telling him all of this now—he had been at Ilvermorny before, and had seen the statues of its founders, hand in hand, at the entrance.

"But you don't know what it means, really." Toby quirked a small smile, a hint of pride in his brown eyes. "Look, to you, AIM was probably this paragon of blood equality, right? Because you come from Britain. To you, anything less than outright discrimination was probably amazing. But AIM only grants one to two scholarships per year to British or Irish newbloods and halfbloods, and every other British or Irish newblood or halfblood who wants to go there still pays international tuition. You had, what, two to three British students per year at AIM?"

"Around that, yeah."

"A tenth of Ilvermorny is British or Irish. More than a hundred students—somewhere between five to seven British students a year, then another seven to ten Irish. Ilvermorny's financial aid system, partially funded by our British and Irish alumni, covers anyone who can't afford the tuition fees." Toby laughed a little, popping the lid off his beer and taking a deep swig. "I guess all I'm saying is, yeah, Saoirse and I know each other and we're friendly, but we weren't in the same year, nor the same House. She hung around mostly with other Irish students. I don't know her that well, on a personal level I mean."

"You're still my best shot," Archie replied, understanding the point. "Hermione barely knows her at all, and the rest of us… I mean, if she mostly befriended other Irish students, you're probably it, and I really need to contact her tonight and get her help on Wales. So, whatever you can give me about her…"

Toby sighed, leaning back against the counter. "All right. Just keep in mind that while Saoirse and I knew each other, and we were friendly, we weren't close. I don't know her that well, okay?"

"Anything, Toby."

"Okay." Toby looked away, thinking for a moment, one finger tapping lightly on the side of his bottle. "So, Saoirse's Choice was Wampus House. We have four houses: Thunderbird, Horned Serpent, Pukwudgie and Wampus. In the Atrium, there's a great Gordian knot, and on our first day, we walk out into it in the Choice Ceremony. There are statues representing each House, and at least two Houses will pick us. We choose which House we want to go to. You follow?"

"Yeah..." Archie said slowly, though he didn't really. He assumed that Toby would get to his point, and he hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

"Yeah. My house, Thunderbird, is supposed to be full of wanderers, people who like adventure. Pukwudgie, they're the Healers, and Horned Serpent is supposed to be full of academics. Wampus House is the House for warriors, and you have to remember that we choose our Houses in front of the whole school. Our Houses reflect how _we_ see ourselves and who we want to be." Toby laughed a little. "When I chose Thunderbird, I told everyone that I had no idea who I was or what I wanted, but I was willing to find out. By choosing Wampus, Saoirse told everyone that she was a warrior, and that she would fight. So, she values that image of herself and she always has."

"Okay." Archie said, thinking it over and making a note of it.

"At school, she was kind of the centre of the Irish." Toby took another swig from his bottle. "In retrospect, having read the articles about her in the _Irish Gales_, that makes sense—she's a direct descendant of Cuchulainn himself, from the wizarding kings of Ireland. She knew it, and I bet a lot of the Irish did too. She's a symbol of freedom to them, and of traditional magic, and I think that has to weigh heavily on her. When we were at the Tournament, she was the loudest voice for us to stay in after the attacks on AIM. She yelled a lot about doing our duty to the other British and Irish students, making a stand against Wizarding Britain."

"All right…" Archie nodded. "How do I use that, though?"

Toby shrugged. "She cares a lot about her duty to the Irish people, Archie. Whatever you say to her, link it to her sense of duty—she'll feel pressured to respond, then."

"Voldemort is attacking the Welsh in retaliation for the Irish revolt, because they have similar traditional magic." Archie frowned. "Isn't that enough?"

Toby tilted his head. "It should be, I think, but be careful how you approach that. Don't blame her for it, _ask_ her for help, note that they're cousins in a sense. And respect who she is—remember that Saoirse Riordan is…" He stopped, frowning, then made a gesture with his hand.

"Is what?"

Toby shrugged again. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, Arch."

Archie laughed. "I'm not exactly easily offended, Toby."

"I know, and I guess really I'm not talking about you, because you're not like the other nobles…" Toby stopped again, rephrasing what he wanted to say. "Okay, so this is really just a guess on my part, but I think one reason the Irish rebelled without telling anyone was how they were treated at negotiations. You did your best to balance everyone, and there were things that you couldn't have possibly known. But the Irish were publicly called terrorists at least once a day by your other allies, particularly the Light faction, and especially by the person that you later put in charge of the main forces. Saoirse never felt that the Lord Potter would treat her and the Irish fairly or equally—she didn't think he would ever see the _Tuatha D__é_ or the Free Irish as anything other than terrorists. She never believed that, if we won, that they would allow referendums on Irish independence."

Archie nodded, understanding. He had heard the comments himself, though Saoirse had given as good as she got, blasting Uncle James for being a Ministry bloodhound. Archie would wade in, sending each of them back to their respective corners, but evidently that wasn't enough. Uncle James never trusted the Irish, and he could see why the Irish didn't trust him either.

"Remember who Saoirse is, Archie." Toby set his beer down on the counter beside him. "She comes from a very old wizarding family, and, by Wizarding British standards, she's probably as pureblooded as they come. She knows it, and she saw the way those nobles treated each other, and how they treated her. Now, she's the interim head of state of another nation until their first round of elections, and to be honest, she'll probably be elected. Treat her like it, and you'll get a better response."

"Okay," Archie replied, nodding firmly. "I think I got it. Respect, and I'll try to work in duty."

Toby escorted him back to the Portkey Hub, for which Archie was grateful. He didn't think he could tell the Portkey Hub apart from any of the other outbuildings, and it was too cold for him to want to wander around outside for long. The transit back to Grimmauld Place was quick—Dad must have been waiting—and soon he was back in his bedroom.

He took a moment to plan his words, as Hermione was always after him to do, then he summoned his Patronus.

"Message to Saoirse Riordan," he told it, adopting an apologetic tone. "Saoirse, I hate to bother you, but Voldemort struck Wales in retaliation for Irish independence. We think he's made a connection between Irish and Welsh traditional magic. We're anticipating a mass casualty situation. Anything you and Wizarding Ireland can do would of course be treated as a favour to Wizarding Britain, to be returned at a later time. Thank you."

When he woke up in the morning, a gigantic silver bull was waiting for him.

"Thank you for your message, Archie," the bull said, the womanly voice somehow incongruous with the appearance of the Patronus. "I'll be on the two o'clock flight to Heathrow and would be pleased to discuss this matter further."

He bolted out of bed, scrambling for his wand and casting a quick _Tempus_ charm. It was past ten in the morning, and he cursed. He _never_ slept in, and while he knew that it was probably to be expected given how late he had stayed up, he needed every minute he could get. He cast his Patronus, calling Hermione.

"Saoirse agreed," he said. "Can you come over?"

Then he found the cleanest sweatshirt on his floor, pulled it on, and ran downstairs. Dad was already gone, a note left on the table saying that he was working with Uncle James to get volunteers for a dangerous mission in Wales, so he poured himself a mug of coffee and waited.

What would Saoirse want? His mind was racing as he tried to come up with ideas. They obviously didn't want to engage much further in the war against Voldemort—at their last meeting, they were pretty clear that they would be defending their own territory only, and that while they would take the same actions that any other country would take, they'd go no further. But they needed military support, and the Irish were the only group that could possibly get there soon enough to help.

It would be a hard ask, he knew. The Irish were independent, and asking them for military support now was like asking any other country. He knew that some of them didn't think it was, because they did have an alliance before, and Ireland wasn't long independent, but it was. Saoirse would probably see the request as being more in line with who they used to be: a downtrodden, subservient part of Wizarding Britain. Not a request of their nearest neighbour.

Maybe he needed Chess, too. Chess, and John, and Gerry.

Hermione was there an hour later, her bushy brown hair already tied back in twin French braids, a wired look in her eyes.

"Wideye Potion?" Archie asked, looking her over.

"Just one, and don't lecture me on this today, Archie," Hermione retorted. "I've been up all night trying to coordinate with the wider BIA. I can sleep after the war council tonight. When is Saoirse coming? How long do we have to convince her?"

"Two o'clock flight," Archie recited back. "So, she'll be here around what, three? And we can get her back to Grimmauld Place from Heathrow by four?"

Hermione winced. "That's not enough time," she muttered. "A flight from Dublin to Heathrow is an hour and a half, more like, and it'll probably be at least half an hour to get out of the aeroport. If we take Muggle means to Grimmauld Place, that's probably another forty minutes."

Archie shrugged helplessly. "She didn't exactly give me options, Hermione. I was thinking, even asking her for help—it doesn't look good for respecting their sovereignty. We aren't calling up the Americans, asking for military support. Or the French, or the Germans, or anyone else. Why did Lina ask for the Irish specifically?"

"Because the Irish are, whether they like it or not, already involved in the war." Hermione sighed. "They started the war as part of Wizarding Britain, and even if they've split off now, they're stuck in it as much as they don't want to be. But you're right, she might see it as an implied challenge to their sovereignty. Realistically, we'll never get the Americans or anyone else ready for an action within the next few days. Have you spoken to Francesca, yet?"

"No, not yet—"

"Then what are we waiting for?" Hermione frowned, and Archie decided then and there that a Hermione hopped up on Wideye Potion was a very frightening thing. "Let's go and get her."

Rosier Place, too, was in a flurry of activity, though Hermione didn't let them linger long enough for Archie to figure out what was happening. Instead, she simply asked the house-elf who met them where they could find Francesca, and walked into the library and pulled out their other friend, who was frowning.

"We need you. And your orb, to talk to John and Gerry," Hermione said, by way of explanation. Francesca nodded, her expression disappearing, and ran to fetch her orb.

They sequestered themselves in one of Aldon's other reception rooms, shutting the door for privacy. It took Chess only fifteen or twenty minutes to get into contact with John—she must have given him some forewarning—but it was another hour afterwards for John to run across Geneva to the offices of Wizarding Germany and speak to Gerry. It was well past noon by the time that Gerry had been rustled out of his office, and they could start talking in earnest.

"What would Ireland want?" Archie asked, after a brief review of what had happened over the past two days. He suspected, based on the stony silence at the other end of the comm orb, that Chess had probably managed to relay at least some of the last few days to them, but he wasn't sure how much. Either way, they didn't have time for shock. Saoirse would be in Britain in only a few hours.

"They want recognition at the ICW," John said, sounding uncommonly serious. "A small Irish delegation is already in Geneva, and they've sought meetings with the ICW to inquire about recognition."

"That's hardly something we can help with, though," Hermione retorted, frustrated. "We're the _rebel side_ of an ongoing civil conflict. Even the ICW has recognized this as a legitimate armed conflict to which humanitarian aid should be provided, that doesn't have anything to do with other decisions. Our support means absolutely nothing."

"But it's an attempted _genocide,_" Gerry spat across the connection. "I would argue that every nation has a moral obligation to become involved."

"Through the ICW?" Hermione sighed, glaring at Chess' pale green orb. "Gerry, you know as well as I do that it'll take each separate nation-state a week to argue internally over whether to become involved, then another week to work out the details of military command and which nation will be in charge, and then a third week to actually mobilize. By then the Welsh will be _dead_."

"I know," Gerry snapped. "But the Irish cannot fail to help. If they do, in the face of this information, Wizarding Germany will not support entry. We are, understandably, sensitive to genocide."

"Gerry…" John said, and if Archie could watch them, he thought he would have seen John laying a hand on Gerry's arm, or leg, or shoulder. "I think Saoirse wants to help. If she didn't, she wouldn't come over—our connections in Ireland suggest she's on the campaign trail for their first elections in December. She's breaking off campaign trail for you, and that's serious. She's looking for a basis on which she can help, without threatening her country's sovereignty. That's all."

"So, what bases can we give her?" Archie asked, throwing his hands up in the air. "We don't exactly have an expert on the law of armed conflict, here—all I know is, there's something about just cause."

"If Ireland wanted to use just cause, they have it already," Hermione cut in. "They started the war on our side, technically they're still in it because they never negotiated peace with Voldemort, and even if they had, Voldemort has struck at Ireland multiple times. If they wanted to fight back, they could, but they're setting up for a withdrawal from the war. If we want them to become involved further, we need an Irish nexus."

"Are there are any Irish that live within Wales?" John asked, his tone considering. "America has a history of launching extraction operations when their citizens are targeted in other nations' wars. Given that Wizarding Ireland was a part of Wizarding Britain for so long, it's reasonable to guess that there have to be families whose lines split across that border, right?"

Hermione thought about it, but then she grimaced. "We can try it, but Ireland is such a young state. I don't know that they've sorted out citizenship yet. Can you be living outside a country when it comes into being, and still be a citizen of that country?"

"I'm sure that Irish parents living in Ireland would take great offence to their children not having Irish citizenship," John replied dryly. "I think the easiest way they'd have to do it is probably residence, then naturalization, and any mage holding No-Maj Irish citizenship will probably be accepted. But you're right, I don't think Saoirse has thought that far ahead yet. Can we name people who are definitively Irish who are currently in Wales?"

There was a pause. Archie checked the time—it was past one-thirty, nearly two. He winced. Aldon's elves had delivered a platter of tea and sandwiches an hour ago, which they had all been munching on as they talked. "We could probably make some inquiries, but we don't have time."

"It probably wouldn't help, anyway." Hermione muttered, similarly checking the time. "So many Irish mages are undocumented—they wouldn't be tracked in magical records. If I had time, I could do a dive of the BIA records, but we don't."

"Um…" Chess said, the first thing she had said since getting John's and Gerry's attention. "This might not be helpful at all, but there were a couple Irish-American magical theorists that were in Wales recently. They published a paper not too long ago in The American Journal of Magical Theory comparing the similarities in traditional Irish and Welsh magic—they were inspired by the Triwizard Tournament, last year. Normally, when researchers work on something, they don't just publish one paper and leave. I mean, they might have returned to America to work through their collected data, but they might also have stayed."

There was another moment of silence.

"Names?" Hermione asked, a bright fire in her eyes and sounding like someone had handed her the moon.

"Declan Smith and Eoghan O'Connor," Chess replied promptly. "I mean—I can't guarantee they're _there_. There's a good chance they're in America, sorting through their data. Researchers on these kinds of projects often travel repeatedly to the location needed, but they usually work through the data at home—"

"But we don't have time to check if they're there, do we?" Hermione interrupted, a smile spreading across her face. "We don't have time to check to see if _any_ specific Irish or any other citizens of other wizarding nations are there. We have a reason to believe that there may be Irish citizens or citizens of other Wizarding nations in Wales right now, and that _has _to be enough."

"I don't know that it is a good plan, but it's a plan," Gerry said, sounding serious. "I will stand by to attend the diplomatic meeting."

"Thanks," Archie said with a sigh. "All right. I'm going to go prepare Grimmauld Place for a state meeting—Hermione, would you meet Saoirse at the aeroport? You can bring her in the back way, if she doesn't Apparate with you."

Chess returned to Grimmauld Place with Archie, her comm orb in her pocket. She frowned at most of the rooms that he presented for the meeting, none of them being good enough for, in her opinion, a state visit, but eventually she settled on the formal sitting room near the front of the building. It had the grandest furniture, she decided, and then she walked off to the kitchen to prepare another tray of tea. One could not, she said, have a state visit without tea.

The last hour of waiting was painful, and he walked around the formal sitting room picking things up and putting them back down. He wanted things to be formal enough for Saoirse, but also welcoming and friendly, only he had no idea what that looked like. He was anxious.

Something was happening in Wales, and aside from the report last night from Blaise and Hannah last night, they didn't know what. They only knew that it was bad, that people were dying, and he wanted to be doing something more—but he had been moving for most of the day, and he only had this one brief bit of time free, but he felt like he should be doing something more. Something was happening, now _now now_, and he wanted to be moving. Things felt easier when he was moving, and just past four, he went to wait on the back stoop, Chess beside him.

It was past four-thirty when he saw a ripple at the fence at the back of the yard, which promptly resolved into the figures of Hermione and Saoirse Riordan. It turned out that dodging the Ministry officials at his gate was absurdly easy and simple, if one used Muggle means—all it needed was a Disillusionment Charm, a walk down the street parallel to theirs, and a climb over a fence. To his relief, Saoirse seemed to be amused by the manner of entry into Grimmauld Place.

"Thank you for coming, Saoirse," he said, rising to his feet. "My apologies about the back route. We're under a fair amount of Ministry surveillance, see?"

"And they didn't think to plant anyone on your back route?" Her blonde eyebrows raised, with a hint of humour. "Francesca, good to see you."

"And you," Chess replied, her voice soft.

"You know how it is, Saoirse—a lot of mages in Wizarding Britain have been cut off from No-Maj society for so long it hasn't occurred to them that there are ways other than magic." Archie grinned, hoping that this was a good start. Saoirse had agreed to talk to _him_, but that didn't mean she would be willing to attend the meeting in less than two hours. Indeed, if he couldn't convince her to help, then she probably _wouldn't_ stay for the meeting. "By now, they probably know we're off the Floo, so they're staking out our official Apparition point."

She let out a laugh. "Especially because anyone working in the Ministry is a Hogwarts-educated, wizarding-raised, probable pureblood, I'm not surprised."

"Come on in, Saoirse," Archie said, opening the back door with a flourish. She had laughed. That was good, and Dad hadn't returned yet from helping Uncle James find volunteers for a rescue mission. He and Hermione both thought that a smaller meeting, with people that had all been educated abroad, would help Saoirse come on board with the idea of helping. "Make yourself at home."

Even cleaned up, the formal sitting room didn't look like a room in which one conducted a state visit. Chess already had a tray of tea on the low-lying table in the centre of the couches, and she traced a quick Heating rune on the pot as they settled down. It wasn't fancy, nothing like the many Rosier reception rooms and formal dining room, and it was made for comfort and not to make an impression. It was only marginally better than the other rooms.

Saoirse didn't comment, only sitting down neatly in an overstuffed, velvet red armchair. "So, Archie, Francesca. Hermione. How bad is Wales? It must be bad for you to contact me."

"John and Gerhardt Riemann are with us as well," Chess said awkwardly, clearing her throat and pulling out her comm orb. "Our liaisons with both MACUSA and Wizarding Germany."

Saoirse paused, her eyebrows twitching upwards slightly as her smile disappeared. "I see."

"It's genocide, Riordan." Gerry's voice was blunt from the other end of the comm orb. "Voldemort is exterminating the Welsh."

"We heard about the strike yesterday morning, with a garbled Patronus message—it looks like Voldemort set wards or a spell around Wales to keep any alarms or messages from going in or out," Archie said, rushing to explain. "We think there's a delay, probably at least six to twelve hours, for Patronus messages in and out of Wales, and they don't arrive intact. We sent in four scouts to see what was happening."

"And?" Saoirse's blue eyes focused on him, considering.

"Two came back late last night and advised that they had found a village massacred, bodies burnt. There were signs of both Dementor and vampire involvement. At least fourteen dead by now, and we suspect they may be planning on massacring all of Wales." Archie took a deep breath, mentally reminding himself _not _to call it a revolt. They might call it a revolt among themselves, but part of recognizing Ireland as an independent nation was changing the words that they used to reflect it. "Our information suggests that this is a retaliatory strike for Irish independence; Voldemort can't strike at you, so he chose a weaker target within Britain."

"Why would you think that?" Saoirse's voice was even, and she reached for a cup of tea.

"Our spymaster managed to obtain a list of possible targets about a week ago." Archie hesitated, but Lina had said to say whatever he needed to say to get Saoirse to help. Somehow, he didn't think that she had meant the truth, but the truth was what Archie had, and the truth would have to do. "The Welsh were on it. We think that—that Voldemort noted similarities between traditional Irish casting and traditional Welsh casting. Traditional Welsh casters had been thought to have died out, but—"

"But Cedric Diggory, a Welsh team member on the Hogwarts Triwizard Team, used it in the Tournament," Saoirse finished with a nod. "Yes, we saw that."

"Yeah." Archie repeated, not sure where to go from here. He sent a panicked glance at Hermione, but her responding look told him nothing helpful. Or that he was doing fine on his own. He wasn't sure. "We were hoping, in the circumstances, as one nation to another—"

"That we might extend some help." Saoirse's eyes were sharp, and she raised the teacup to her lips. "I'm going to speak bluntly to you, Archie, because I'm rather shit at politics and I always have been—I say what I mean a little too much, and bartering for favours isn't in my instincts. But I didn't leave the campaign trail for nothing. We want to help, because the Welsh are our cousins, and we want to provide them with support. But we're a young state, and we haven't even had our first elections yet. I am worried that taking steps to help you will threaten our push for recognition before the ICW. You're essentially asking us to interfere with another nation's internal dispute. Convince me that there's a basis for Irish involvement that doesn't, implicitly or otherwise, suggest that we're here for anything except our own interests."

"It's _genocide,_" Gerry said from the connection to Geneva. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"And Wizarding Germany is being asked to provide military support?" Saoirse snapped, glaring at the orb.

"We would put it before the ICW, if there was time, and you know it," Gerry retorted, equally sharp. "You're the closest nation, you've been involved in the conflict whether you like it or not from the start. If you want to be an accepted member of the ICW, act like it, Riordan. You know our history—you know that, with me at this meeting as a liaison with Wizarding Germany, if you don't act, I will have no choice but to pass your reluctance onto my superiors, and Wizarding Germany denounce your failure to act in the same breath as we denounce Voldemort for the genocide!"

"MACUSA would probably be behind Wizarding Germany in that statement," John said, his voice more threatening for all that it was mild. "The Second World War looms large in our national consciousness."

Saoirse's mouth was a thin line. "Give me a reason, then—a _legal_ basis for interfering and providing support. The fact that Voldemort is flouting the law of war, particularly as it pertains to proportionality, is not a basis on which other nations have to interfere, and you know it. Not all nations accept the responsibility to protect doctrine."

"Voldemort wouldn't know what the law of war was if it smacked him in the face with a haddock," Hermione muttered, shaking her head. "You have Irish citizens living in Wales. Is that basis enough?"

Saoirse paused. "We don't even have citizens yet, not formally. We aren't a state."

"But No-Maj Ireland is a state," Hermione said, and somehow, she made what was probably an irrelevant statement sound like it was perfectly relevant and reasonable. "And your heritage is a fact. People _are_ Irish, the way people are Kurdish, regardless of whether you have a recognized nation-state or not. Surely you have plans for how you will determine citizenship."

"Yes, but…" Saoirse shut her mouth, frowning. "How do you know that there are people who _would_ be Irish within Welsh borders, currently?"

"Because it's probable," Hermione improvised. "Wizarding Ireland used to be a part of Wizarding Britain. People who grew up in Ireland, who have family in Ireland and be Irish by birth, have likely moved to live and work in Wales for reasons of their own. Among No-Majs, Northern Ireland is still a part of the UK, so even undocumented Irish mages living in the No-Maj world could have reason to live in Wales and therefore be at risk."

"Have you done a search of the BIA membership lists, then?" Saoirse asked, her gaze direct.

Hermione shook her head. "I haven't had time. But Francesca has concerns about two Irish researchers."

"Irish-American, now," Chess said, on cue. "Irish by birth, but living and working in America as magical theorists. Declan Smith and Eoghan O'Connor—they published a paper last year comparing Irish and Welsh traditional magical methods. They may be in Wales—MACUSA is confirming whether they are in America right now, but, um, we don't know yet."

"And you want Ireland to interfere on the basis of _probable_ Irish citizens, who might not even exist, currently living in Wales," Saoirse summarized, her voice flat.

"Well—er, yes." Archie smiled, a little sheepish. "And the, uh, genocide."

"You're the closest," Gerry said, his voice coming across from Geneva. "It's genocide. The usual rules don't apply, and I think it would support your case to be admitted to the ICW next May were you to take action now."

Saoirse glared at them, but she shook her head. "Fine," she sighed, her mouth twisting in distaste. "We can send two ships, crewed by forty mages. Rescue and support only. When's the war council?"

"Great!" Archie's smile stretched into a grin, and he pulled out his wand to check the time. "We have half an hour."

Saoirse was visibly less comfortable at Rosier Place than she was at Grimmauld Place. Aldon had cleared the formal dining room for the meeting, and Archie had to admit that even he was somewhat uncomfortable with the new locale. The Rosier formal dining hall was designed to impress—not one, but _three_ fine glass and crystal chandeliers lined the ceiling over the thirty-foot-long table, all of them alight. There was food clustered at one end, simple sandwiches and snacks, while Aldon himself sat closer to the middle of the table with a stack of books in front of him, pouring over notes with a pink Puffskein sitting incongruously on a blue velvet pillow beside him. Chess sailed over to the tiny critter, picking it up and cooing at it, and Archie couldn't help but be impressed at Aldon's ingenuity in ensuring that Francesca would now be sitting beside him for the meeting.

Aldon looked up from his notebook, a tired expression on his face, when he heard them enter. He rose to his feet, giving Saoirse a solemn bow. "Lady Riordan. A pleasure to see you again, though I wish it could be in better circumstances. Welcome to Rosier Place."

"Lord Rosier," Saoirse acknowledged stiffly, with a curt nod.

"Have a seat," Aldon invited, sitting back down himself and glancing around the room. "Hopefully we'll begin shortly."

"Convenient." She settled down, adopting a bored expression that didn't hide the twist of her mouth when Uncle James, Lina, Moody, Dad, and his cousin Tonks walked in.

Lina took her time settling in, taking in the other occupants of the room at a glance. "The food is a distraction, Aldon."

"I rather thought that we would think better if we weren't also hungry," Aldon replied. "Are we ready to begin?"

Lina shook her head, but Archie didn't think that was a denial, more an expression of unhappiness. Lina hadn't been happy to be pushed to making plans for what she obviously considered to be a probable suicide mission into Wales. "I think that is everyone we need, yes. Lady Riordan, pleased you could come."

"I wish I could say I was pleased to be here," Saoirse replied, straightening in her chair with a cautious look around the table. "Stormwing Avery. Lord Potter, Lord Black. Stormwing Moody, I presume. Detective Constable Tonks."

"Just Tonks, _please_," Archie's cousins said with a snort. "I spend every day being called _Constable_, and I got reprimanded for my hair colour today, so I could do without the title right now."

"Just Tonks, then." Saoirse eyed the newcomers carefully, caution in her blue eyes. "Archie has been kind enough to inform me of the genocide occurring in Ireland, and I am here to express our grave concern. We are particularly concerned about the risk of our countrymen being caught in the conflict, and we recognize the Welsh as our cousins. However, any assistance we provide must be recognized as coming from a separate nation, and there are limitations to what we, a budding nation of our own preparing for our first elections, can reasonably—"

"Cut to the chase," Moody snapped gruffly, waving a hand. "Yes, Ireland is a separate country, we recognize your sovereignty for all that a rebel force can recognize anyone's sovereignty, and yes, we understand that you're not going to throw your whole army at our disposal. Get on with it."

Saoirse glared at the aged Stormwing, and when she continued, her voice was stiff. "We are willing to deploy two ships to the Welsh coastline, for support only. They'll be crewed by twenty mages each. We'll cross into British waters, but we won't come on shore—best use for them is to provide covering fire for a retreat. I gather that we aren't going to be talking about an assault anyway."

"That's right—this is more in line with a moderately-suicidal rescue mission," Lina replied flatly.

"Coastal support…" Aldon made a tsking sound. "I received a message from an informant. The Welsh are gathering in Snowdonia."

Lina swore. "That is the _stupidest_ idea I have ever heard. How is that that defensible?"

"Snowdon peak is a holy place," Saoirse said neutrally. "For Welsh traditionalists."

"That's an even stupider idea, then," Lina snapped. "Yes, just have all your people gather at a _spiritual_ location, instead of thinking about how to best survive, where anyone can reach you for help, or anything else. Why? What on earth possessed them to pick _Snowdon peak?_ I trusted them to know their lands. I trusted them to come up with good plans and good escape routes. Why did I do that?"

"I'm not sure that Snowdon peak was on the escape route list." Moody shot her a stern glare. "Their escape routes were probably designed for individual families being attacked, much like our own escape route planning. Grimmauld Place evacuates to Potter Place, and if not Potter Place, to Rosier Place, and so on. They didn't anticipate that everyone within their network would be struck at once, nor that they would be unable to contact anyone outside Wales easily. They're _not_ acting on plans; they've chosen Snowdon peak as their best hope for a stronghold."

Lina swore again. "Does it have _any_ defensive fortifications? Spells?"

"To my knowledge, no—"

"Yes, it does," Saoirse interrupted. "Traditional magic isn't internal, and it isn't core-based—it relies on our relationship to the land. The more you can cultivate your relationship to the land, the likelier it is that the elements will like you and will respond to your call. Snowdon peak is a holy place because it's the most powerful well of magical power in Wales. They're gathering at the spot where traditional Welsh magic is strongest and likeliest to answer their call."

"That doesn't help with an extraction and rescue plan." Uncle James leaned forward, reaching for a sandwich. "Two ships, fine, but they won't make a difference unless we can get people to the shore. We need to be able to communicate with the Welsh."

"I've spent the afternoon considering the problem." Aldon's voice is stiff. "Wales is not insignificant in size, and if Voldemort has indeed struck the entirety of the region at once, he and his followers must be able to communicate and move effectively within the area. We can reliably assume that while the barrier insulates the Welsh from the outside, within Wales, both magical communication and transportation ought to work."

"And the Anti-Apparition Ward?" Dad asked.

"There are three settings for an Anti-Apparition Ward," Aldon explained. "One can control Apparition into the warded space, Apparition out of the warded space, and Apparition within the warded space. Most Anti-Apparition Wards forbid all three, but in this case a ward allowing Apparition within is the likeliest solution. It also takes less magical power to raise an incomplete ward as compared to a complete ward."

"What do we have by way of troops?" Lina asked, shooting a look at Uncle James.

"Thirty."

"And anything from the Order?" Lina looked towards Aldon.

"They can have a unit to us in a week, and no, they can't do any better." Aldon snorted. "It took me sixteen tries to get Alex's attention."

"Damn military protocol." Lina scowled. "Alastor and I spent half the day at the Welsh border, examining the barrier, though we weren't able to determine much. We weren't able to find any alarm spells, but it's possible that the spells aren't set to go off until certain conditions are met: the number of people crossing, how often people are crossing, where they are crossing. Voldemort almost certainly does have an alarm spell set to send him warning of a large group crossing at one location. Accordingly, we're going to suggest that we split into three groups and cross into Wales at three separate locations, with no more than four crossing at any time."

Lina reached for a glass of water, taking a deep breath. "We know from Harry's group that it allowed four to pass through in one location without harm. If we cross at three separate locations, we'll be able to get everyone through faster, and it'll be less likely that Voldemort will notice anything amiss. From there, we'll be in enemy territory, so we ought to stay separate. A group of thirty will attract notice. Once inside Wales, we should connect with the scouts and the Welsh, and try to direct them towards the sea, if we can. How far is Snowdon peak from the coastline? In case Apparition is not possible?"

"Far enough." Saoirse tilted her head, thinking—or, Archie amended, maybe she was asking her magic, since he felt a breeze whisper around her. "Ten miles or so, rough terrain."

"What about Voldemort's followers, though?" Dad asked. "Three groups of about ten each—it's still a noticeable group, but it's small enough that if we are noticed, we might be hard pressed to defend ourselves."

"Balance," Moody replied gruffly. "Lina and I both suggest groups between eight and twelve people each. On one hand, too many, and we'll attract notice and certainly be attacked; too few, and on the off chance we are found and attacked, we're all much less likely to survive. Ten works because we will still be able to split into smaller groups if we need to, without being left too weak. Gods all forbid being caught in a group of two or three."

"We know that Voldemort's followers are off terrorizing the Welsh countryside." Lina shrugged. "Our best guess is that they're likely to be in smaller bands as well. Should any of our groups run into theirs, we'll have to hope that ten is enough."

"I'll notify the Chief—we'll put out a Muggle alert to prohibit entrance to Snowdonia National Park, and keep people clear from the route to the sea." Tonks nodded, a cheerful tilt to her eyebrow even if her expression was serious. "We'll probably still have an epic clean up operation afterwards, but it's the best we can do."

"So—" Uncle James leaned forward, reaching for the plate of sandwiches. "The plan is: we split into groups of around ten, we enter into Wales, and we send messages to Harry and Leo and to the Welsh, if we can. What do you suggest then?"

Lina shrugged. "We hope we make contact and can formulate a better plan, and if we can't, we head towards Snowdon peak and try to hit Voldemort's forces from behind and buy enough time and distraction for the Welsh to head to the sea, and the Irish can cover the retreat. It's flexible, and communication is key. If we had a week, I'd recommend we get comm orbs, but we don't. The potions and spellwork required for those require a week to set. So—Patronus messengers, we share all information, and we make plans on the go. We leave as soon as possible, given the urgency."

Uncle James stared at Lina for a moment, then he looked over at Moody. "This sounds like an awful plan."

"It is." Moody broke into harsh laughter. "Oh, it is. The fact is, on the information we have, this is the best we can do, and even it relies on a lot of guesswork. Make sure everyone knows their Patronus spells for the Dementors and fire-spells for the vampires."

"Better have your last wishes in place, too." Lina smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Suicidal, practically non-existent plans are my specialty, but I can't say the survival record is particularly good."

XXX

The wall loomed in front of them, barely visible in the darkness. If it wasn't for the odd light sparks dancing near the ground and the oppressive weight of the magic in front of her, Lina could have missed it.

The group of mages behind her muttered among themselves, uncomfortable. She had terrified this lot into silence already. Unlike with the Malfoy Manor strike, she hadn't simply taken volunteers. James had pointed her at a group, and she had gone with them. She thought they were regretting it already.

The Lords Potter and Black had, somewhat predictably, gotten volunteers by invoking heroism. Their allies were under attack, and of course they had to go charging in, preferably on stallions, to the rescue. They had talked about the danger, of course they had talked about how it was dangerous, but coming from the mouths of two former Gryffindors, she shouldn't have been too surprised that the thrill had come across more than the reality. She had fixed that with a cold reminder that this was probably a suicide mission, and by pointedly asking if they had their last wishes in place.

"Who wants to come through with me?" she asked, not looking behind her. "Three of you, let's go. Wait ten minutes, then second group, then ten minutes, then the third group. If anyone wants to go back, last chance."

There was another sound of uncomfortable shifting, before Abernathy stepped up beside her. A former Auror, Lina remembered. He was a solid fighter, but since Malfoy Manor, there's something a little different about him. Abernathy now carried himself like a man who had already lost everything, or, as Lina considered it, prime suicide mission material. Ironically, the more he was prepared to die, the likelier it was that he would survive.

"We're ready," he reported quietly. "Lead the way, Avery."

"Off we go, frolicking into Wales, then." Lina took a step forward, feeling the air press around her, choking her. Time seemed to slow, but another step, and the feeling was gone. Abernathy was a step behind her, his wand already in hand, and two others followed him.

She looked around. Wales looked no different than England—the same hills and valleys stretched before them, with the same bushes and trees and low-lying grass. It was silent, hauntingly so, which Lina counted as a success.

"Monitoring Charms and basic defensive wards," she ordered, one hand reaching to check her weaponry. Two guns, wand, crossbow. "I can't be entirely sure about the nature of the barrier, so eyes open, everyone."

She didn't hear a response, but she trusted that her unit would follow orders. Instead, she summoned her memory of the day that Étienne had helped her set up her Muggle identity, and of the raucous pub they had gone to afterwards to celebrate her getting her own bank account, her own driver's licence, her own credit cards. They had gotten incredibly drunk, then into a barfight, then they had been tossed out onto the Paris streets. It was still one of the best nights of her life.

Her silver wolverine appeared. "Message, to Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, private. Backup units arrived. Report." She rattled off a set of Apparition coordinates, close enough to her own position that she would see them coming, but far enough that if anything went amiss, there would be plenty of time to shoot them before they came close. She had no interest in being betrayed.

Both James and Alastor would also be sending them similar messages, just in case. Lina had no real expectation that Harriett Potter would come to her over her own father, but it was a security measure. None of them could be entirely sure whether communications did work properly within Wales, so it was better that she receive three messages and report wherever she needed to than none at all. She called two more Patronuses in quick succession, sending them to James and Alastor, each of whom were in command of another unit. A third Patronus went off to Cedric Diggory, set to private viewing only, and Lina only hoped that the boy had survived this long.

It took a few minutes, before a bright stag appeared in response. "Received and clear," James said, his voice low. "One message only, it seems. Keep them short."

Lina sighed, understanding the point. Normally her Patronus could handle the distance to James and back easily, but the fact that James had to cast his own meant that there was still something in Wales inhibiting messaging spells. The barrier was the largest problem, she guessed, but it seemed like there was a magical drain or something weakening Patronuses even within Wales. It was another minute before Moody's hare appeared from the darkness, confirming that his unit was coming through as well.

Ten minutes, and the second group in her unit were through the barrier. They looked around, nervous or cautious, and Lina gestured for them to help their unit-mates with the security spells.

The clap of Apparition was thunderous in the silence, snapping from the hillside across from them a hundred yards away. Lina's guns were drawn instantly, and after a quick, silent spell that allowed her to see heat signatures, she made out the figures of two people in the darkness. The shapes seemed to be right, and they hurried towards Lina's group.

"Halt," Lina said, eyeing the two of them. They certainly looked like Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, if a little weary. She cast a non-verbal _Finite Incantatem_ at them, followed by a quick runic screen to highlight any magic. Both of her checking spells came back clean, but Polyjuice Potion was always a concern. "Potter, how often did your father want you to report when he permitted you to act as a scout?"

"Every eight hours," Potter replied easily. "Avery, how many nights has it been since we met last?"

"Two, if we include this night."

Potter nodded, and Lina waved her within the circle of their protections, limited as they were. It was good enough. "I am surprised you've chosen to heed my call, rather than your father's."

"You were closer." Potter cast about for a moment, before she settled on a convenient, if sharp-looking, rock. Her companion, Hurst, conjured a small stool for himself. Both looked exhausted and drained. "The barrier sealing Wales—we've conducted a few experiments. It is possible to Apparate within Wales, but it takes two to three times as much magical power as usual. You can't Apparate out of Wales. It seems that Patronus communication works, however, judging from the messages I received from Dad, from you and from Professor Moody."

"We suspect drain as well on the Patronuses—short messages only, and they don't travel as far or as powerfully. Consistent with Apparition, I think. Isn't there some law of Charms or something that lays out the relationship between Patronus message distances and Apparition?" Lina shook her head. Aldon or Christie would know, but it didn't matter. She motioned for one of her mages. "Singleton, Patronus the Lord Potter and advise that we've made contact with the scouts."

The woman nodded, turning away.

"That's right. Hughes' Law," Potter said, putting her head in her hands with a sigh. "I ought to have thought of that."

"Report, Potter."

There was a moment before Potter looked up from her hands. "Where do we begin?" She glanced over at her companion, who wasn't looking much better than her—in some ways, the blank expression on his face was worse than the distraught one that Potter had on hers. "I suppose Blaise and Hannah already told you about Ottery St. Catchpole and the Burrow."

Lina nodded, gesturing impatiently with one hand for the girl to carry on. Thirty years of experience had gotten her too used to military reports from other mercenaries and the dhampir—they always knew what to say and where to begin, and there was none of this wasted time. She would never cease to be impatient with disorganized reporting.

Potter took a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a moment, before opening them again. "Leo and I searched the other wizarding family homes that we knew would be in that area—the Diggorys, the Fawcetts and the Lovegoods. The Diggory homestead was burnt to the ground, but there was no sign of any of the Diggorys. The Fawcetts are dead, both mother, father and their son who was too young to go to Hogwarts. The Lovegood residence was in shambles, so we believe that Xenophilius Lovegood managed to blow up his residence before fleeing, because we didn't find him in the rubble. We opted not to search for survivors who might have gotten away in the darkness, since it was well past midnight at that point, and we returned to the Burrow to sleep the night. It was in the best condition, still standing and defensible, and we didn't think that Voldemort's followers, the Dementors, or the vampires would be returning.

"This morning, we went back to search for the Diggorys and for Xenophilius Lovegood. We didn't find any leads for the Diggorys, but we found a blood trail for Xenophilius Lovegood and followed it for about a half-mile before it ended. We didn't find a body. By then, we assumed that reinforcements were likely on the way, so we moved on. I cast a passive scrying spell, and it highlighted magical activity through most of south and east Wales. Once we realized we were able to Apparate withing Wales, we Apparated to a few of the hot spots."

Potter stopped her recital, looking blank for a moment, before she continued. "We stopped in a village near Nant-ddu—burned out, much like Ottery St. Catchpole, seventeen dead. From there, another hamlet near Pant-y-dwr, which was also burnt out, nine dead. Finally, we went through Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, but again—burnt out, and dead. We didn't see survivors, but there were indications of torture at Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant on at least four bodies. Twenty-six dead."

"They toyed with them before they died," Hurst added, his voice stark in its flatness. "With Dementors and vampires at their side… vampires kill in a characteristic way, but in Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, it was torture. Bones broken, bodies were carved with the Whip Curse or maybe just a blade, saying _Mudblood_ or _blood traitor_. Burns that aren't consistent with anything except torture."

"Aldon has said that many of Voldemort's followers are unstable. Did you make contact with any Welsh?" Lina asked, her eyes sharp. Potter would have said if she did, Lina thought, but she had to ask.

"No, none." Potter fell silent. "I didn't even think of trying to send a Patronus to anyone in Wales. I only know Cedric, but still—I ought to have. It was nearly noon by the time we realized we could Apparate."

Lina shook her head. "What's done is done. Aldon received an informant's message earlier today, saying that the surviving Welsh would be gathering in Snowdonia. The Irish are providing coastal support—this is an extraction and rescue mission, not a liberation attempt. If you want to fight, you can stay with my group, but your father would want you to return home." She paused. "I am not your father, so I leave the choice to you, but you should know this is a quasi-suicidal mission from here on out. Not all of us will be returning home."

"I'll keep going," Hurst said, too easily. He had the same emptiness in his eyes that Lina saw in Abernathy's. "Harry should return home, though. What's the plan?"

"Potter?"

Potter sighed, glancing at her friend. "If Leo is staying, then I'll stay," she said firmly. "I can go on."

Lina nodded absently, spotting another Patronus coming from the darkness. A white-tailed deer—Diggory's, she hoped. "Wait, then."

The deer paused, seeming to look around before it looked at Lina. "Avery," Diggory said. "I have fifty at Snowdon peak, covered by heavy fog. We're sieged and can't Apparate out—the power well prevents Apparition within a mile of the peak. Please help."

The deer disappeared.

Lina cursed. She had done some fighting near power wells before, and it was always a shitshow. They were places of native power, where the natural magic of the location tended to inhibit Apparition. England was dotted with power wells, such as Stonehenge, the Tower of London, a half-dozen other places she could think of off the top of her head. Outside of England, there was Mount Kilimanjaro, Sri Pada, Istanbul and half the bloody Middle East. She had wondered, when the Riordan girl had called Snowdon peak a place of magical power, but she had hoped she was wrong.

The trick about power wells was that they were easy to Apparate _in_. In order to Apparate anywhere, one only needed to overcome the latent magical quotient of the departure location, then add the magic needed to cover the distance by some formula that Lina honestly couldn't care enough to remember, and boom, one would be at the arrival location. Power wells simply had so much latent magic that an individual mage couldn't overcome the initial barrier.

There was the drain here, too, Potter had mentioned. Two to three times as much magical power as usual to Apparate. That would leave a heavy impact.

Lina looked at the girl. "I understand you have a large magical core."

"I do."

"Can you Apparate to both your father and to Moody's units, then Side-Along them here? We need to plan. Your father is south of here, crossing near the route to Cardiff, while Moody is to the north, crossing south of Liverpool. We need to plan."

Potter nodded, rising from her rock. "I can do it. Leo? Moody is closer, so if you get him, I'll get Dad."

Hurst nodded as well, his stool disappearing the minute he stood. "South of Liverpool. A trip there and back, though—if I Side-Along him, I'll need at least a few hours to recover."

"We'll have a few hours," Lina replied, turning away. "We won't attack when the vampires will be most active. But I doubt Diggory will be able to hold out that long, so let's get moving."

It wasn't long before Potter reappeared with her father in hand, and Hurst with Alastor. In the meantime, Lina had gotten her camp in something like order—there was a watch rotation, and a sleep rotation, though she doubted that many would be sleeping the night. Still, based on her very rough ideas for a plan, they needed what sleep they could get.

Snowdonia was not too far from her current location—maybe sixty miles, an hour's drive by car, and it was too bad she didn't have one of those to hand. Or, a bus, rather, with a force of thirty. A bus would be very convenient for transportation without dealing with Apparition drain, but they first didn't have a bus, and second, a bus approaching a closed park close to midnight would be too noticeable in any event. They would deal. Snowdonia was also, by her guess, about sixty miles from Moody's location, but more than twice that from where James' unit was staged.

Potter seemed unaffected when she reappeared, her father holding her arm, while Hurst seemed wan. Lina nodded a welcome to the two men, waving them over to the rough map she had carved in the dirt. "Can I assume that both Potter and Hurst have given you a brief report?"

"Yes," James replied, crouching over the diagram and squinting. "What is this supposed to be?"

"The peak." Lina scowled. "Snowdon peak. It's in the middle of a power well, which is probably what Diggory is drawing on for their defense right now, but he won't hold indefinitely. He has fifty there, but I doubt even half that number can fight—we know for a fact that his actual group never numbered more than three dozen. The power well prevents us from Apparating _out—_not Apparating in, only _out_. The good news about that is that Voldemort's men won't be Apparating out of it either. We need to pull Voldemort's attention to us, give the Welsh a chance to break away from the peak and head to the shore. Once they're even a few miles away from the peak, they should be able to Apparate the rest of the way. A noon strike, while the sun is high, so Voldemort's followers won't be able to rely on their new vampire allies or on the Dementors."

"Flanking manoeuvre." Moody examined the mess of arrows that she had on the ground. "You want us to strike on the side away from the shoreline, cause a diversion. Diggory strikes from within, this group is pinned, and Voldemort has to bring forces around to assist—then the Welsh can break away towards the shoreline."

"How do we stop Voldemort from going after them once they've broken away?" James tilted his head in a frown. "This manoeuvre only works if they're actually pinned, Lina—once the Welsh break away, there's nothing stopping them from coming down harder on us or chasing after the Welsh."

Lina looked at him, the meaning plain in her eyes, and James' jaw tightened.

"I see," he said, after a long moment.

"Have a better idea?" Lina asked. "They're sieged, up there. We have to break it, and I'm open to new and better ideas."

James crouched down, casting his eyes over the messy diagram. He took his time thinking, his mouth a thin line. "Only a few adjustments. Ideally, we want to draw Voldemort's followers' attentions farther away from the peak if we can. Let's have two or three more decoy targets—we can set fires, or set up magical sparks a little farther away, make it look like we have a larger force than we do. Voldemort has to send groups to look at each one, and if we time it right, then we can pull some forces away and keep them from getting back in time. A quick battle, you're thinking?"

"Under half an hour, ideally," Lina looked back down at her map again. "Once the Welsh are cleared, we retreat. We have to stay towards the edge of the Anti-Apparition zone, so we only need to bolt so far before we can Apparate out. It's a good idea, James. Can your group handle the decoys? Forgive me for saying so, but with the Apparition drain…"

"We're the farthest away from Snowdon peak, the most likely to be suffering from it, and the ones who won't have recovered in time." James nodded. "It's what makes sense."

"Take your daughter and Hurst with you." Lina gestured to their two scouts, hovering just outside their conference. "They've been on their feet and investigating most of the day—they'll be in even less condition for an outright fight than even your unit will be after we make it to the peak."

"Right." James rose from his crouch, glancing at his daughter, who only nodded. "For a noon strike, we'll start setting fires and so on fifteen minutes ahead of time, and we'll stagger them. Hopefully he'll have to send more than one group out to respond. I better get back to Sirius, let him know the plans. You'll contact the Welsh and the Irish with the plans?"

"I'll handle the Irish," Moody said with a wave of one scarred hand. "My unit is closest to them."

"Then I'll pass the word to the Welsh," Lina finished with a sigh, erasing her diagram with scuff of her foot. "Don't get caught before the action starts, and with a hell of a lot of luck, I'll see you all after the fact."

It was the work of several minutes to send her Patronus to Diggory with a very abbreviated version of the plan. Diggory needed to know when and where the strike would happen, and then he needed to know to send his people to the shoreline where the Irish would be waiting with ships and would be providing covering fire for their retreat. Lina didn't add anything unnecessary in her message—Diggory would know. Diggory no doubt already knew.

With leadership came responsibilities. Lina had never been a leader, nor did she want to be one. Not in the way that Aldon's friend Archie was a leader, not even in the way the James Potter or Lord Dumbledore were leaders. With leadership came the hard decisions, and Lina knew without needing to ask what decisions Diggory would be making.

Someone would need to hold down the mountain. Someone would need to keep Voldemort's followers from breaking after the escaping Welsh, someone would need to put pressure on Voldemort's followers, keep drawing fire, while the others got away. Right now, Lina didn't need to ask to know that Diggory was walking a circle around his camp, sorting out the people who would be given a chance at survival and those that wouldn't. And she knew which group Diggory would choose to put himself in—which group that he had no choice but to put himself in, rather, if he wanted the best chance for his people to survive.

When his white-tailed deer came back, the message was brief. "Understood," Diggory said. "Please—remember your promises."

The deer faded into darkness, quicker than normal for any Patronus, but Lina studied the space where it had been for far longer than necessary.

Eleven in the morning found her and her unit standing shoulder to shoulder with Moody's group. They had Apparated in near dawn, a few miles outside the power well, and she had made everyone hike the last five miles towards the peak. The fog was heavy, carpeting the grounds, keeping their scent down. If it wasn't for the passive scrying spell that she had cast every fifteen minutes, she would have been hard-pressed to see where anything or anyone was, and indeed within the power well she couldn't even be sure of her readings. Finally, it was only the noise of certain of Voldemort's followers that alerted her to the fact that they were near enough, and to halt. They were close, almost on top of what had to be the unluckiest of Voldemort's groups.

By eleven-thirty, she had established through a thin, waif-like former Auror named Ella Trenton that there were two groups within striking distance of them, and that they had seven or eight mages each. They were waiting, apparently—Voldemort himself was not there, seeing to something elsewhere. Trenton hadn't heard what had drawn him away, but it didn't matter. Lina sent her back to keep watch and listen for anything interesting.

Voldemort himself was not there, and that was a piece of luck that Lina couldn't have anticipated. Maybe more of them would survive than she had anticipated. If she could, she would accelerate their schedule, but instead, she had to hope that whatever his task was, he wouldn't return for some time yet.

At eleven-forty-five, she heard the clap of Apparition. Or rather, the clap of many Apparitions, enough that it sounded like a sizeable, but not unrealistic, army. She heard murmurs from Voldemort's camp, a few rustles from that direction, but it didn't seem as if anyone were moving. Not yet.

At eleven-fifty, she heard firecrackers—firecrackers, and the distant multi-coloured lights barely broke through the mist and fog. The same direction as the earlier sounds, and a second later, there was a replying shower of red sparks the opposite direction. Lina privately marvelled at the ingenuity of the plan—rather than setting decoys at several locations, which would look more like a diversion, James' group was making it look like two allied groups, newly Apparated in and who were now communicating with each other in the fog. It was well done, and even Lina would have sent scouts to investigate.

Eleven-fifty-four, and Trenton came up to whisper to her that, after a hurried conference, two other groups were being sent to look into the noise and the sparks. Not bad. Two groups were some fifteen mages that she wouldn't need to contend with. She nodded and motioned for Trenton to rejoin the remainder of her troops.

At eleven-fifty-seven that morning, she turned to her unit. Trenton was paler even than she normally was, while Abernathy's eyes were entirely focused. He was the exception.

"Remember," she said, "the moment you see blue sparks, we're done. Break and run, and it is on you to make it the distance you need to Apparate home. I won't be able to drag each of you back. You will all kill today, or you will do your best to kill. I don't care if you used to sit across from them at the DMLE—I don't care if you used to have lunch with them once week, if they bought you donuts, if they married your bloody fucking cousin. Once the fighting starts, we are here to give the Welsh a fighting chance at survival, and then we're gone."

She met the eyes of each of her unit members, fixing them in her mind, then saluted them, wand in hand. "_Alea iacta est, feliciter velim_."

Then, it was noon. The fog blasted away, and the sun was blinding. Lina had a gun in one hand, dropping five bullets into the first wizard who rose from his seat, taken aback by the surprise, and then she and her troops were in the maw of battle.

She didn't recognize the man who stepped forward to engage her, though she knew from the gun he had drawn that he wasn't a British wizard. She didn't need to see the ring on his finger, or the tattoos hidden by his jacket, to know him for what he was.

"Zajac, or Ozturk, then?" she snarled, dropping to the ground and summoning a shield. Not a _Protego_ or even a _Fortis, _but a large sheet of metal that she hurled, with the strength of an overpowered Banishing Charm, into his face. "_Vengeance_, or _Resistance_?"

"_Caution_," the man snarled back, dodging the sheet of metal, before Lina was on him, her own gun now sheathed. They were too close for gun combat now, which was her intent, and her free hand flew in the pattern for a Blasting Rune, which she focused behind him. She didn't want anyone coming to his assistance.

He hadn't dignified her question with a reply, but from his broad nose, light brown hair, and the fact that he was now murmuring a spell in old Slavic, she would guess Zajac over Ozturk. His spellwork looked Durmstrang-bred, from the sharp way that he stabbed his wand at her, and he wasn't bothering to make his spellwork non-verbal. He didn't need to—she dodged a red flash of light that had to be a curse of some kind, sending a _Petrificus Totalus_ curse back at him.

There were no Killing Curses fired between the two of them. They didn't need Killing Curses to try to murder each other, nor was there enough breath and focus for them to be able to summon the spell at all. Instead, the exchange was painfully brutal in banality: Flame Hexes, Blasting Curses, Bombardment Spells, Body Binds of several types, Vertigo Hexes, Slowing and Quickening spells, Stinging Hexes, Slashing Curses, Severing Charms and Cutting Hexes. They were seeking time—they were seeking a breath of distraction, that moment of confusion or hesitation on the other side that would give them the space to cast something more devastating on the other.

Zajac was too good for complicated spellwork. He was also faster than she was, which was no surprise considering that the man was, based on her information, some ten or fifteen years her junior. She took a Stinging Hex to one shoulder and ignored the intense burn it bred as she turned it back with a Blinding Curse. A lesser Stormwing than she might have been worried, but Lina Avery had been thirty years a mercenary, and what she might have lacked in age and speed, she made up with experience and cunning. She dodged a spell, launching back a Reductor Curse in response.

If she kept Zajac occupied, he wouldn't be giving orders to Voldemort's followers, so she set herself to that task with a will. But Zajac, too, required her full attention—she could not afford to look behind her. She could not afford to see how her own troops were faring, and she hoped that whatever else was happening, they were taking her words to heart, or that Abernathy, the most senior of the former Aurors in her group, had taken them in hand. The sound of yelled hexes and screaming were distant behind her, and she only saw the gouts of flame going up around them from the corner of her eye.

Dementors. There were Dementors surrounding them, chilly, misty fingers of dread and horror and fear reaching into their minds, and Lina didn't have the time or focus to spare to cast a Patronus. Instead, she ignored them—ignored her parents' voices, disappointed as they discussed yet another failed match for her, ignored the blank feeling of futility that came out of a hundred conversations about how she never wanted to marry, ignored the feeling of being less and wrong and somehow defective because she didn't want to marry, didn't want children, didn't want anyone in the way that she was supposed to want someone. She ignored Étienne's voice as he yelled for her to run; she ignored years of feeling small.

If there was one thing that Stormwing training was good for, it was ignoring things when they were inconvenient. The sun was high, thankfully, the bright warm beams of light keeping the Dementors' powers at bay. She saw silver flashes—her own troops, she hoped, casting Patronuses.

There was a howl in the distance, and there was a breath—Zajac stopped, his eyes flicking behind him to the peak, and Lina risked a glance.

It was Voldemort, descending on the peak. He was flying, without the need for a broom or any other seeming support. It was a gross waste of power, a show of strength, and even if she was disgusted by it, Lina was unwillingly impressed. She didn't have that power at hand, and neither did anyone of her acquaintance.

Zajac fired another curse at her, and she dodged, spotting a tree that had been felled by an earlier Blasting Curse, split into several pieces. It was the work of a second for her to pick it all up and hurl it at him. One of the larger pieces, which she set on fire for good measure, caught Zajac around the head.

She chanced another look at the peak. The sun shone brightly, and she caught a view of Diggory—Diggory who was no older than her own Aldon, who was facing down a wizard powerful enough to fly unaided. She couldn't see the expression on Diggory's face from this distance, but she saw the rain of blue sparks from the peak. Not wand magic, but traditional magic, and she understood.

This was it. Diggory had gotten out everyone he could, and that meant it was time to go.

She took two steps back, fired a cascade of blue sparks from her wand, once, twice, thrice. She saw others take up the signal, then she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, grabbed Ella Trenton, still somehow alive and in her path, and ran for it.

XXX

Aldon was waiting at Peverell Hall. It was not a place where he was comfortable, nor was it a place where he thought anyone was comfortable with him being present. The Lady Potter was solicitous, though she said little to him, while Harry's younger sister, Adriana, hid behind her mother's robes. Lady Potter, with only a few perfunctory, polite, words, seated him in their kitchen with a pot of too-hot tea, too much sugar and too much milk, before asking if he would be all right on his own and if she could excuse herself to an errand.

He didn't blame her. Her husband and her eldest daughter were in Wales, and she had to be worried. Instead, he had only nodded his thanks, assuring her that he would be fine and that he had no intention of going anywhere. She had smiled in relief and disappeared, leaving him alone with the tea.

It was weak, tasteless on his tongue, and by its colour he could see that it had not steeped nearly long enough for his usual tastes. He glanced around the kitchen, seeking distraction.

Peverell Hall was too homey. The furnishings were too soft, the light in the kitchens too warm and cheerful. Aldon didn't belong here, among soft furnishings and kind light and warm fires. Every soft furnishing felt like it was tempting him into an illusion, lying to him, and he wished he could be waiting at home, at Rosier Place.

But the post-battle rendez-vous point was here, and Peverell Hall would be where the Lina and the others would return afterwards if they survived. And he wanted—or, he needed—to know what happened as it happened, and that meant waiting at Peverell Hall, uncomfortable as it might be.

It was a relief when Archie and his girlfriend showed up. Archie had greeted the Lady Potter with a tight grin, throwing his arms around her and kneeling to chat to his young cousin, before he sat down at the table.

"Anything?" he asked, expectant, but Aldon shook his head.

"Unless you consider a garbled message from Cedric that's hours out of date just saying that they're at Snowdon peak and need help to be something."

Archie shook his head. "No." A pause. "Do you want a book to read? Or we could play chess, or Exploding Snap, or… I don't know."

"I likely could not concentrate enough to read a book." Aldon sighed, looking away. "Nor do any games interest me."

Archie shrugged. "I could probably find you something. Chess' romance novels don't take any brainpower to read—"

"Just a lot of suspension of disbelief." Hermione snorted. "Did she make you read the one with the ghost in it?"

"I thought that one was cute," Archie protested lightly, reaching for the pot of tea. Aldon shot Hermione a look—there were times when he thought Archie's girlfriend understood him better than most, as infuriating as the woman otherwise could be. This was one of those times.

"Not the time, Archie." Hermione shook her head sternly. "Not the time."

They waited in silence—not that Aldon had any idea what they had planned, once they arrived in Wales. He knew only that Lina had planned on a daytime strike, and that time was of the essence. The details, she had said it would depend on what happened once they got there.

Well, they were there. They had been there all night, near fifteen hours, and all Aldon could do was wait to see if anything happened. It might not be today, he reminded himself. It could be tomorrow, or even the day after, depending on what Lina found. But he had already tried to work this morning at Rosier Place and had gotten exactly nowhere.

He didn't have the focus to read more about warding. A sound here or there, a stray thought, and he would be back at the beginning. He had pulled a book on magical theory, hoping to lose himself in something he enjoyed, but there was no luck there either. He had stopped in the library, but even Francesca was unable to distract him sufficiently from the Welsh problem. The third time she caught his attention wandering as she tried to catch him up on ACD developments, she had frowned at him and gently suggested that perhaps another time might be better.

Near eleven in the morning, he had gone to Queenscove, looking for someone to distract him in the lists. None of that group had volunteered for the trip to Wales—they were formally on standby in case Wales _was_ a diversion, with the equivalent of a complete unit ready for deployment to either Grimmauld Place or Rosier Place if a warning signal came.

But his own distraction worked against him there, too. He was used to losing, but not so brutally, nor so quickly. Neal's older brother, Graeme Queenscove, had picked him up out of the dirt and told him, quite kindly, that he was doing himself no favours by taking a beating and that he ought to come back when he could bring his best fight.

And all of that led Aldon here, staring into a barely steeped cup of black tea as if it held the answers to the future.

It was near two-thirty in the afternoon when the front door opened.

"Sirius!" he heard the Lady Potter gasp, and Archie was out the kitchen door. A second later, and Harry Potter was helping the Sirius into the kitchen, blood streaming from a wound in his shoulder. Archie already had his wand out, checking the wound for infection.

"Light hex," Sirius muttered. "It burns like goddamn fucking _fire_."

"I couldn't lift it," Harry said, glancing apologetically at Archie. "I don't understand hexes on this level, and everything I did—I tried to break it, but I couldn't, so I just gave him a Blood Replenisher and bandaged it, but he keeps bleeding through it."

"What happened?" Aldon demanded, too sharp, as Archie started casting diagnostic spells at Sirius' shoulder. Harry gave him a look, her green eyes despairing, before Sirius spoke.

"Pandora Parkinson happened," he growled. "The decoy was successful—drew two units away from the main flank. Parkinson's caught up with us, and that girl—"

"I'm sure there's an explanation," Harry interrupted, though by her voice, she sounded less than sure. "She's not—she was never—"

"It's a Light curse," Archie interrupted, his expression serious, though he glanced at Harry with mixed anger and worry. "She's essentially given Dad a case of haemophilia. I can't Heal him until the curse is broken, and I need someone with an Erlich rating of five or higher for this."

Aldon stood up. It best to head off any discussion about Swallow—she needed to be left where she was, and it was best if no one, especially Voldemort, could question her loyalty—and there was a clear distraction available. "I am not a Healer," he said, walking around the table, "but I am an Erlich five and have a little experience in Curse-breaking. What do you need me to do?"

By the time Aldon had finished breaking the curse on the wound and Archie set to Healing it, the Lord Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lionel Hurst and several others had reappeared, Apparating in at safe distance from the walls and sneaking onto the Potter grounds. The Lord Potter looked exceptionally grim.

"We weren't on the main attacking force," he said, pulling out a list of names and setting it on the table. There was already a neat row of checkmarks, marking those that had survived. "Sirius and I were the decoy units—we were drawing fire away from the peak while Lina and Moody's groups handled the main assault, pulling Voldemort's units away from the peak long enough for the Welsh to escape. They know to meet here."

People trickled into Peverell Hall all afternoon—some under their own power, others being helped along. Names were checked off the lists, and a silver bull appeared in the mid-afternoon with a message from Riordan that they had successfully rescued twenty-three Welsh and were on the way back to Ireland. No names were provided. Alastor Moody hobbled in, pulling two of his unit members after him, near four in the afternoon, and Lina didn't reappear for near a half-hour after him, pale with magical drain, shoving another woman before her.

Aldon gave her a brief nod, leaning over to check her name off the list with a sense of relief. More than half of people had checked in, a little under two thirds. With her and her companion, that left nine names outstanding.

"So?" she rasped, holding her hand out for the list. "What's the butcher's bill, then?"

"Nine," Aldon replied. "Nine outstanding."

Lina let out a slow breath, shutting her eyes. "At this hour, we might expect one or two more, but it's unlikely. The only reason I didn't make it back earlier is that I was drained—needed to take cover for a few hours and take a Pepper-Up before I could Apparate the rest of the way. Nine is … not bad."

"What happened, Lina, Alastor?" The Lord Potter asked, pouring her a mug of tea. "You were both on the ground—how did it go?"

Lina broke into a grim sort of laughter. "How do you think it went? I came up against Zajac—he's one of Voldemort's hired Stormwings, sworn to _Vengeance_. Young fellow, fast and sharp. I didn't see much of what else happened behind me. But we were lucky, very lucky. I don't think that Voldemort anticipated that we would be trekking through the heavy fog to lay the assault, nor am I sure that Voldemort understood the fog to be under the control of the Welsh. He was, fortunately, away when we struck. I only saw him at the end."

"It was much the same for me," Moody added. "Once the fighting started, it was a melee. Dementors came to the aid of Voldemort's followers, though they weren't able to gain much control with the sun high."

"Voldemort flew in at the end—without a broom or anything, mind. What a waste of fucking power." Lina sighed, looking into her mug with a frown of distaste. "Didn't matter, though. Cedric Diggory is dead. Do you have anything stronger?"

Aldon blinked, and took a deep breath, pushing the slow rushing in his ears away to listen to the rest of the discussion. Twenty-three Welsh saved by the Irish ships, which was not a bad number considering that Cedric had had fifty at Snowdon peak. Cedric had probably kept the strongest fighters with him on the peak—that's what Lina and Moody would have done—to keep Voldemort's attention. Lina had _seen_ Voldemort, young and powerful, and faced off against one of his two hired Stormwings. Moody had run up against Bellatrix Lestrange and had managed to mark her across the face with a Slashing Hex that he hoped would scar. The Lord Potter had faced off against the other of the Stormwings, though he hadn't known it at the time. He had gotten away because they were both Light wizards, and their spells had nearly cancelled each other out.

When they turned to him and to what came next, Aldon forced himself to pay attention. Yes, Aldon had an informant at the Ministry who would be able to access to census records. He would have the total number of recorded Welsh residents for Archie within a day, he promised, though that would be an underestimate because not every wizarding household was registered. Sirius, his shoulder patched up even if he still winced to move, would clean up a statement to be released by Lady Malfoy at the ICW. Recruitment would need to be stepped up yet again, and instructions were handed out for everyone to consider how that might be done, especially from the British expatriate community. Lina said something to him about raising counter-intelligence efforts—with greater recruitment efforts, Voldemort would have an easier time slipping a spy into their organization. As their resident Truth-Speaker, Aldon would need to interview everyone, both old members and new ones.

Aldon nodded agreeably, if a little absently. These were all important details, and he stamped them, rote and routine, into his brain. They were cut and dry, a neat list of things that needed to be done. Tasks, pieced out into bite-sized portions, made everything easier. He just needed to focus on each of these tiny, incremental steps, fix them in his mind so that he remembered them. He needed to remember these fine details, so that he didn't remember other things.

That lasted until he went home, until Lina cited exhaustion and disappeared into her rooms, leaving the patrols of the Rosier Place grounds in the hands of her trainees. That lasted until he was alone, seated on the sofa in his own parlour, with nothing but his thoughts and a list of tasks that he couldn't seem to think his way through, that he probably couldn't make a start on until the next day anyway.

In his rooms, he put his head in his hands. He hadn't known Cedric Diggory very well. Until the Triwizard Tournament, he had just been a classmate to Aldon—a familiar face that had shared Transfiguration and Charms with him most years, Magical Theory, and Curse-breaking. Cedric was friendly, always with an extra quill or spare bit of parchment if someone needed one, and he had invited Aldon more than once to a Magical Theory study group. Aldon had always declined, but there had been no hard feelings about it. He was an affable classmate, popular both inside his House and outside of it, and that was all.

In the Tournament, he had seen more of Cedric. Even when they had no bloody idea what was going on, Cedric had always been practical, working hard and uncomplaining. He had stood firm in Alex's most tyrant-like moments, when Alex had asked them for too much, and he had been the only one to do so—Harry was far too likely to consider the request reasonable, Angelina too stubborn to ever admit that that she could not keep up.

And afterwards, when they were out in the world and forming _Bridge_, Cedric had been among the first to join. He had been a quiet voice with information from inside the Improper Use of Magic Office, and a faithful ally working from next to nothing to bring the Welsh together.

Cedric had wanted children. Cedric had wanted to resurrect Welsh wizarding culture, to spark a new renaissance of the people that he loved, and that Wizarding Britain had all but stamped out. He had wanted to speak Welsh in the open every day, he had wanted to send his children to Welsh Muggle schools where they would speak Welsh every day. He had pictured a future of Welsh witches and wizards as powerful as Saoirse Riordan, High Priestess of the _Tuatha D__é_. Cedric had dared to imagine a free future for himself, and for his people, one where they could practice their traditions and pass them down with pride.

"Fuck it," Aldon whispered, standing up from the sofa. He couldn't handle these thoughts, not without a drink in hand, and while he knew perfectly well that Neal was periodically running through his manor looking for drugs, Neal hadn't touched his father's port and brandy collection. It was perhaps a little too fine for him to get drunk on, but it wasn't as if he had anything else to hand. And it wasn't as if he didn't have enough galleons to resupply himself later.

It was the work of a few silent moments for him to slip down to his father's old chambers and pick out a barely opened bottle of brandy and find a glass. It was only a few minutes more for him to return to his rooms, pour himself half a glass, and to toss it back.

XXX

Francesca was lingering in her sitting room over a book, her body angled towards the file. Ummi, who seemed to have taken a particular shine to her, had seen to it that there was a roaring fire in her grate every evening. She loved watching the flames dance against the brick in her fireplace, and she never had to worry about cleaning up the ashes afterwards. Somehow, the elves just handled it.

She only wished she had more to read. It wasn't that she didn't have enough to do. Her days were spent working with the ACD, and with Aldon as busy as he was, she had taken over most of the drafting for the papers she needed to publish for AIM credit. After that, there was also her No-Maj curriculum to keep up with—she needed grades of _some_ kind to get into college—and she would need to get into London at some point to write her SATs. But sometimes, in the evenings, she just wanted to relax by her lovely fire with a romance novel. She had a few with her, her favourites, but by now she had read them over a hundred times.

There was a pop, and Francesca turned to see Ummi in her sitting room.

"Ummi apologizes for the interruption," the elf squeaked, proper. "But Miss's help is needed."

Francesca blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry?" she asked, sitting up, but Ummi only caught her by the hand and Apparated.

Francesca stifled a yelp as she landed heavily in a new room. It was dark, not one that she had seen before. One wall was lined with bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing, while a side table held an elegant chess set themed with dragons. It was cold, with no fire burning in the fireplace, and she pulled her wool cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders.

A few steps to the closest window, where she could just see a bit of light bleeding into the room. Below her, lit by several light globes, she could just make out the familiar shapes of the Rosier sculpture garden and a few other identifying features of the manor. She was still at Rosier Place, at least, only in a part of it she hadn't seen before—most likely the family quarters.

There was a rustle behind her, the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass, and she whipped around. Ummi was nowhere to be seen and she realized that the lump in the darkness, seated at one end of the sofa, was Aldon. He didn't seem to have noticed her entrance via house-elf.

She hesitated, looking around again, before she drew the rune for light in the air and flicked it onto the ceiling. Most of the lights in Rosier Place were not easily coded for her use, and even if her light was a little weak, it was better than nothing.

The amber in his glass was something strong, she knew that much from the scent floating through the air. And Aldon had had a little too much of it, she guessed, from the fact that the bottle was half-empty.

She approached him carefully. He hadn't moved, hadn't given any indication that he knew that she was there.

With no little trepidation, she leaned down beside him.

He was still handsome—his hair was mussed, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands were trembling, but his skin was even and flawless and nothing could obscure the delicate gold of his eyes. His arms had bulked a little over the last year as he had gotten more in shape, but he would never have the broad shoulders that John had. He was slender, built more for speed than he was for strength.

She reached for the glass, prying his fingers from the cold crystal. It was a pretty tumbler, mostly empty, and she put it down on the coffee table just out of reach.

"Aldon," she murmured, trying to work out what she was supposed to do. This wasn't something she had ever learned how to do—Archie and Hermione, as far as she could tell, never drank to excess and the few times she had seen John drunk, he had been very much a happy drunk, and Gerry had been there to look after him. Faleron was practically a teetotaller, mentioning something once about how he had cared for enough drunk people as a class monitor that he simply wasn't interested in the experience.

Faleron was good at taking care of people. John was good at taking care of people. Archie and Hermione, passionate Healers both, were good at taking care of people. Francesca was decidedly not, and she had next to no idea what she was supposed to do.

Aldon hadn't moved from his position, so she rested one hand on his arm. "Aldon."

He stirred, blinking. "Francesca," he muttered. "You shouldn't be here."

She didn't know how to respond to that. She chose to ignore it.

"How much, um, have you had to drink?" She picked up the bottle of brandy beside her, though she had no idea what she was looking at. 45% alcohol content by volume, though the bottle itself didn't seem to be very big.

"Not enough." Aldon sighed, a deep and heavy outtake of breath, reaching for the half-empty glass that Francesca quickly nudged further out of his reach. "You shouldn't be here, Francesca. Rather, I am doubtful that you are. Why would you be in my rooms, at this hour? It is enough—more than enough—that you are here at Rosier Place. And you shouldn't be."

Aldon didn't slur his words, but Francesca knew he was drunk anyway. He moved too slowly, like he was underwater, and his voice had a despondent, hopeless quality that she had never heard before. As long as she had known him, he had always had spirit. Aldon looked forward, with a tunnel-like focus, towards the world he wanted.

When he spoke, Aldon was sharp. His words were bright notes in the air, said in a musical cadence that Francesca wasn't sure anyone else heard. If he was intrigued, pleased, or even happy, his words danced in the air, as sure as Francesca's feet in a competition—if he was angry or upset, his words became daggers, mocking barbs that dug into his opponent and stuck. These words were too flat, too monotone, one note when Francesca was used to hearing a symphony.

He was still talking.

"You should be somewhere safe. Somewhere in America, maybe, with that other man, the one that Neal said was good at duelling. Or maybe you should be in Switzerland, with John—or at least, you should be at Queenscove with Neal and his family. They would be able to protect you. They have spelled walls. I don't have walls, and I can't protect you. I can't protect anyone. With all the information I hear, I still can't use it to make a difference. I hear about things, but they're always too late—always too late. And I don't have the skill to go out and fight. I don't even know if I can hold Rosier Place. I certainly couldn't without my mother, and Moody, and the trainees."

Francesca paused. She didn't know if there was any point in trying to reason with Aldon now, but she wasn't sure what else where was to do. It couldn't hurt, in any case.

"You could always ask for help," she said, resting one hand on his arm. "Every—the other safehouses all have at least one unit stationed there. Queenscove has two units assigned to them. Even Grimmauld Place has one. It's not—it's not weakness to ask for help, Aldon."

"As if they wouldn't turn on me," Aldon muttered rudely. "They all hate me anyway. Too Dark, too much a traditional pureblood, too much SOW Party. Too many connections to the other side. As if I didn't throw that entire future away, my closest friends with it, when I channelled Justice for Archie's bloody trial. And now I have to do counter-intelligence work along with everything else, and I can't even keep my promises to write those papers with you and help with the ACD. Bloody wonderful."

"I don't—I understand that you're busy, Aldon," Francesca tried, even less sure that Aldon understood that she was really in his rooms, trying to make sense of this situation. He bounced from topic to topic in a way that only he could understand. "Don't you think, um, it might be time for you to go to bed? You can, um, think through these things in the morning."

"I don't want to go to bed," Aldon complained. "I want to drink. I want to keep my promises. I want Cedric to be alive so that he can have all the children he wanted, and they can all go to those Muggle Welsh public schools he told me about. I want this war to be over, and I want to mean something. I want my existence to mean something. I want to be something, so that I can look at you and be someone you'd want, and you might love me. You're so beautiful, Francesca, and you're brilliant, and you—you're like me. You want."

Francesca had no idea what to say to that. The beauty and brilliance, that was one thing—Francesca expected that. People said she was beautiful all the time, people had whispered about it at AIM, and the comments about brilliance had come often enough after the ACD was showcased in the Tournament. Faleron had always called her beautiful and brilliant too, but it was Aldon's last few words that stuck in her mind, buzzing.

She was _like him_. She _wanted_. And everyone wanted, but she knew without having to think about it exactly what Aldon meant.

"You want to belong, the way I want somewhere to belong. You have one foot in the Muggle world, one in the magical world, the way I have one foot in pureblood Society and another in… something else. You and I, we don't belong anywhere and… and I thought—I hoped—we might belong together, that I might be enough—but I'm not." Aldon took a deep breath. "Everything here—it's not enough. I don't even know if I want it to be enough, because if you were drawn to something like my wealth, that wouldn't be… But I want to be able to give you everything. The best of everything—"

He stopped rambling, but only because Francesca had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

He tasted bitter, a mix of heady, pungent brandy and salt tears. Even so, his lips were soft and warm, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist. She stumbled, falling onto him, but her outstretched hands didn't catch on the back of the sofa as she had intended. Instead, even inebriated, he caught her and pulled her flush against him, and her arms looped around his neck instead.

His skin was hot, almost fevered, and he returned her kiss with a desperation that Francesca should have found terrifying. Instead, her arms around his neck tightened. They broke apart for a single breath, but Aldon's lips were on hers again, rough and heated and needy as if he couldn't be so lucky again in life and she found herself responding with the same fervour that had so gripped him. A second kiss led to a third, led to a fourth and a fifth, and her fingers were clumsy in the back of his hair. Only Aldon's fingers against her bare skin, from where he had slipped a hand just under the hem of her nightgown, brushing her thighs, brought her back to herself.

She shouldn't be doing this. He was drunk. He was very, very drunk and no doubt he was only doing this because he was drunk, and he didn't think she was real. She pulled herself away, panting and praying that Aldon was far too inebriated to notice the deep flush coming across her face.

"Bed," she choked out, hurriedly straightening her gown and tugging her cardigan back in place. "Please, Aldon. Bed. Things will look better in the morning, and—and you're enough. You're—you'll always be enough, so please. Bed."

He blinked at her, a slow blink that made her wonder if he, for perhaps the first time, realized that she was really there. He coughed, a blush spreading over his cheeks. "Er—yes. Perhaps—perhaps that is wise."

There was an awkward pause, as Francesca waited for him to make good on his word. Instead, for one heart-pounding moment, he simply stared at her, his eyes focusing on her bare legs. She cleared her throat pointedly, and he stood up so quickly he staggered. Without thinking about it, she caught his arm and steadied him, then nodded in the direction of a doorway that she guessed was his bedroom.

"I'm going," he muttered, casting his eyes away from her. "I'm—I'm going."

And he did, only stumbling a few steps along the way, to collapse face-first onto his unmade bed.

Francesca made to shut the door behind him, then thought better of it and left it open. She shouldn't stay, but she knew what John and Faleron would have said about that. Aldon was drunk enough that someone needed to keep an eye on him. It wasn't likely that she would get a glass of water into him now, as much as he needed it, but someone would need to make sure he didn't roll over in his sleep, that he stayed on his side so that if he threw up, he wouldn't choke on it.

Sighing, she turned around to the low-lying table, on which sat the bottle of brandy and the half empty glass. She considered it for a moment, not sure what to do, then shook her head and clapped her hands twice.

Ummi appeared. "Yes, Miss?"

Francesca frowned at the creature, who had Apparated her here and then effectively abandoned her to deal with Aldon alone. The house-elf's expression, though, carried nothing in it other than mild concern and bland professionalism, so Francesca simply pointed at the bottle and glass. "Would you—please."

"Of course, Miss." Ummi collected the bottle and glass. "Is there anything else Ummi may do for Miss?"

"Um." Francesca glanced back at the bedroom door, ajar, and sighed again. "A pillow, blanket and a roaring fire, please."

XXX

_AN: What a fun chapter! Thanks very much to meek_bookworm, who helped me clean up the Saoirse bits a lot, and then gave me Actually Good Latin to use because I don't know any Actually Good Latin. Leave me a comment or a review-they are the fuel that feeds more, and each one of them inspires me to keep that buffer strong so that chapters come out on time!_


	9. Chapter 9

Aldon woke with a pounding headache.

His mouth was dry and tasted like the night after he had finished his Potions NEWT exam. He had breathed too much of his own disgusting concoction, the taste of salamander blood and too many ingredients he didn't want to think about coating the back of his throat, which he hadn't even been able to drown with the taste of Firewhiskey.

Firewhiskey. Had he even had Firewhiskey last night? He didn't have any in the manor, he didn't think. Since the night of Voldemort's reappearance, and Harry's escape, he had never been able to drink Firewhiskey, hadn't even been able to sniff it without a visceral twisting of his stomach that told him, abruptly, that he needed to vomit. But there was his father's port and brandy collection…

He sat up, his head spinning violently. He was still wearing yesterday's clothes, which were wrinkled and reeked of sour alcohol and sweat. Looking around, he could see that at least he hadn't been sick all over his covers—though, maybe he was speaking too soon. He swallowed the bubble of vile-tasting bile that came up in his throat.

Get up, he ordered himself. Clean up. He had things to do, even if he didn't fully remember what they were currently. There were no doubt a million things he needed to do, but he couldn't imagine doing any of them without a shower and a Hangover Cure, and probably a breath freshening potion of some kind. Looking over towards his bathroom, he winced—the walk there seemed far too long, and he just knew that the lights would probably make him throw up.

Aldon hated throwing up. He hated feeling so uncontrolled, being unable to breathe as his body took over and rejected the contents of his stomach.

Nothing for it, he reminded himself sharply, feeling his head pound. If he threw up, he threw up, and maybe it would be a lesson to him about drinking.

He only retched twice in the bathroom, nothing coming up, thankfully. The Hangover Cure he ended up Summoning from elsewhere in the Manor also helped, ten awful minutes later, which was when he finally felt able to stagger into the shower and let the hot water wash away the last traces of his last night.

Cedric was dead. He remembered that, and bits and pieces of the last day began trickling back into his memory. He needed to reach out to his informants in the Ministry, see if someone could find the records for the number of witches and wizards who had lived in Wales. This wasn't Robin's area, but Hummingbird likely had the access for it, as well as the credentials to be able to make the request for information itself disappear. He would also need to reach out to Magpie in the Wizarding British delegation in Geneva—if he could make a few key orders disappear, it could make all the difference in terms of international reception.

Counter-intelligence efforts, Aldon remembered. He needed to step up his counter-intelligence efforts. Previously, it had been somewhat less of a concern—their only major action, the Malfoy Manor strike, had happened so quickly after the coup that they could be reasonably certain that Voldemort, still securing his hold on the Ministry, wouldn't yet be at the point of planting spies into their organization. Since then, any action up until the Welsh rescue had been small and constrained, with no more than three or four people involved in planning. At this point, however, if Voldemort didn't already have a spy within _Bridge_, he would certainly be looking to putting one in.

He would have to interview everyone within the organization, if he could. He could foresee problems already with the former Light faction, who would be offended at the demand and would seek exemptions, as well as with the Clans. He would also need to interview every new recruit their side received. Counterintuitive as it might seem, he would likely have to let a few spies into the organization eventually—Voldemort would become suspicious if he couldn't get a spy into their side. The key would be remembering who they were and limiting the information they would receive, turning them into as much of a liability for Voldemort as they were a benefit. But at the same time, as a known Truth-Speaker, he couldn't make planting a spy very easy for Voldemort and would need to send back anyone who failed too obviously.

He still needed to expand his own network if he could, too. More spies within Voldemort's ranks would be better for him, but he would take more from within the Ministry, the major noble houses, the remaining areas of the Lower Alleys, the _Daily Prophet_, the Wizarding Wireless Network, and the Guilds.

There was so much to do. He sighed, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. He was tired, and the Hangover Cure left him with a persistent feeling of emptiness. It had been too long since he had had a night where he had needed it—not since school had he ever drunk to excess to the point of needing a Hangover Cure the morning after. He supposed that he likely would have needed one the morning after the Ministry Unity Ball, if Sirius had not forced him into drinking a Sobering Potion. The effects of the hangover had also likely been obscured by the punch to the face he had suffered that night. He had forgotten how awful this felt.

He organized his priorities for the morning—first would go the owls to Hummingbird and Magpie, coded. Then, any messages that had come in would need to be decoded and considered for urgency, and after that he would begin drafting formal invitations to everyone within their alliance for an interview with their resident spymaster and Truth-Speaker. He would need to consult Sirius and the Lord Potter for strategy on the Light faction Houses, potentially doing those interviews with both the Lord Potter and Sirius first so that they could set an example for the rest.

His head was full of his plans for the day when he walked out to his sitting room and his brain came screeching to a halt.

Francesca was there.

She was curled into a small ball at one end of his sofa, tucked under a thick, cream-white down duvet, her head resting on a fluffy pillow that Aldon knew his elves had to have dug up for her. The fire in the grate was low, and there was a book lying on the floor—one of the romances that Aldon had bought in the months after the Ministry Unity Ball, trying to work out what had gone so drastically, terribly wrong.

He scrambled, searching his memory for answers. What was he forgetting from the night before? He had no idea how she had gotten there, but the fact was that she should not be there. She had obviously stayed the night in his rooms, and while he doubted that he had done anything to compromise her—surely she would have woken in his bed, if that were the case—the fact remained that she had stayed the night in his rooms and that was, in the eyes of society, close enough. He searched in his empty head for any idea of what had happened the night before, anything that could lead to a reasonable explanation, anything that might exonerate him.

The feeling of her lips against his, warm and sweet and gentle when he was anything but, her body pulled flush against him so that he could feel every one of her modest curves. She had fit in his arms, her body molding perfectly against his, and he remembered slipping one hand underneath her soft, cotton nightgown.

_Merlin. _He started there, before launching into a dozen other profanities, nor only wizarding but Muggle and French and Quebecois French.

He had no idea what had happened after that. What did they say? Had they said anything? Where had they stopped?

He swallowed hard, collapsing on the sofa beside Francesca's slumbering form and putting his head in his hands. He wished he could remember what had happened, but in some ways that mattered less than the fact that she was here, having spent the night with him. Even if, based on her location on his sofa, he guessed that they had to have stopped somewhere before ending up in bed.

Leaning over, he rested one hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently. She stirred, made a soft noise of discontent, and rolled over. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face.

Some people, he thought, were supposed to look sweet when they were asleep. Beautiful women, in particular, were supposed to look dreamy and vulnerable and delicate in their sleep, but instead Francesca's hair was a tangled mess, her face was scrunched into the corner between her pillow and the sofa back, and her mouth was open. There was a wet spot on the pillow under her chin from where she had been drooling. Overall, it was not an attractive look, but he found her attractive anyway.

He leaned over and shook her again.

"Five more minutes," she muttered, her voice a plaintive whine, burying her head farther into the crack between her pillow and the back of the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he replied, keeping his voice low, reaching over to brush a strand of hair off her face. "You do have to wake up, if only because we need to discuss..." He paused. "We need to discuss what comes next."

Aldon knew exactly what he thought would need to come next, though a quick wedding in the middle of a war was not ideal. Still, even if it wasn't the route he would have liked to take, he would not deny that the end result was one he very much liked.

Regrettably, he somehow suspected that Francesca would not see it that way.

Francesca stirred, blinking. It was a couple minutes before she sat up, slowly tugging her woolen sweater tighter around her shoulders. There was a flash of uncertainty in her dark eyes.

"How—" she started, then she paused and took a deep breath. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"I've been better," Aldon admitted lightly. "And I've been worse."

"I—I'm glad." Francesca looked down at the duvet in her lap. "What, um—what do you remember about last night?"

Aldon looked away. He remembered very little—only the flash of kissing her, holding her, touching her. If they had gone any farther than that, he could hardly say that he didn't remember it, but neither could he lie outright. Without knowing what had happened the night previous, he could not convincingly pretend that he did remember.

"Enough," he hedged. "I remember enough."

The expression on Francesca's face said clearly that she didn't believe him.

"Er, I remember kissing you," he elaborated quickly. "And—and what came after that."

Her pointed, unimpressed stare said that she still didn't believe him, so he rushed ahead, brushing a few extra strands of hair from his forehead. "And as such, my dear Francesca, we really ought to discuss what comes next."

She looked away, her hands folding the blanket underneath her, still thankfully covering her legs. One of the few things Aldon remembered somewhat clearly from last night was her dress: a pale blue nightgown, delicate lace hem falling just barely to her knees, her sweater pulled tight over her chest as she shivered slightly in the cold. He clearly remembered the feeling of her bare skin, smooth and a little chilly, an enticement to for him to press his warm hands against her.

"What comes next?" Francesca asked, her fingers tracing a line of stitching. "Um, I suppose—what do you want to come next?"

Aldon hesitated. "A quick, small wedding that no one may question either my honour or yours?"

"No."

"It seems to work in your novels, Francesca." Aldon leaned over, picking up the one that was on the floor beside the sofa. _The Viscount Who Loved Me_, the title screamed in white, curly text against a background of heavy red drapes framing a suggestive red velvet chaise. He held up the book, considering the phallic implications of the rapier on the cover, before showing it to her. "This is no different than the Viscount Bridgerton being caught with his mouth on Miss Sheffield's neck. I may not be a viscount, but—"

He stopped talking as Francesca's fingers stilled, and she looked up at him with another unimpressed glare. "This is not a book, Aldon. We are not characters in a romance novel."

"I would think that—"

"No."

Aldon sighed heavily, setting the book down on the side table. It looked like she was halfway through it before she fell asleep, but he assumed that she would be able to find her spot again if she were to finish reading it. "Then, Francesca, what do you propose? After last night—regardless of what may have actually transpired between us, the assumption will be—"

"It is 1996, Aldon." Francesca straightened in her corner of the sofa. "Almost 1997. I can—the sexual revolution was in the sixties. Condoms, birth control pills, and, even better, contraceptive amulets exist. I can sleep with whoever I want to sleep with, and people can say whatever they want about it. It doesn't matter."

"In America, that may be true—"

"I'm an American." Francesca moved as if she were about to stand up, annoyed, but Aldon caught her by her wrist and shook his head, his cheeks heating. She sighed. "If it—if it makes you feel any better, Aldon, there was nothing after the kissing. You went to bed, and I thought—I decided to stay, in case you needed anything. I'm not—I'm not surprised that you don't remember."

Aldon cleared his throat, looking away, deep red with embarrassment and shame. "My apologies. I must have taken advantage of you."

"No, I was the one who kissed you first." Francesca pulled her wrist out of his grasp and stood up anyway, and Aldon averted his gaze. She pulled at the duvet, beginning to fold it. "If anyone took advantage, it was me. You just—you said some things, and—I couldn't help it. I—Sorry."

Aldon wondered what on earth he had said. Whatever it was, he should have said it months ago.

"Not at all," he interjected hastily, still trying to avoid looking at her legs. They were very nice legs. "I do remember the kissing. I am not—er, well, what would you like to come next?"

Francesca was silent for a moment. "Do we—why do we need to put a name to it? I—I like you. Can't we just—I don't know—take it day by day?"

Aldon was silent for a minute or so, considering what to say. "This is not in my upbringing," he said eventually, his voice low in warning. "This is—regardless of how much easier it would be for you, it does not sit well for me. I do not want to keep you like a dirty secret, Francesca. At minimum, I would be uncomfortable with anything other than an established relationship with a view to some permanence."

"It's not the same thing," Francesca muttered, setting her pillow on the top of her folded duvet rather harder than the stacking required. "Fine. We can date. I'll tell John, and Neal, and John will be annoyed and will have Neal threaten you on his behalf, and we can go out to one of the formal reception rooms in your crowded manor with everyone watching us because we're in the middle of a war, and—"

Her hesitancy stopped when she was annoyed, which he couldn't help but find endearing as he caught her by the arm and pulled her in for a kiss. It was a light, gentle and brief, nothing like what he remembered of their kisses last night. It was the sort of kiss that he wished he had been sober enough to give her the night previous.

"Thank you," he murmured, breaking away. "You won't regret this, I swear it."

The expression on her face said that she was skeptical, but thankfully she didn't seem to want to expand on her doubts. "You—have you thought about, um…" She searched her words. "You said a lot last night. About work, and the things you needed to do, and, um."

Aldon had no idea what he had said last night.

"Have you—maybe—thought about asking for help?"

"Er—" Aldon looked away, unsure what to say, especially because he didn't know what he had said the night before. It was true that he had a long list of tasks, but it wasn't something she should concern herself over. "It's fine, Francesca. I will get it done. You have no need to worry."

"It didn't sound like it, last night." Francesca pulled away, frowning at him. "It didn't, um—it didn't look like it, either."

Aldon's smile froze.

"It's just—" she took a step away, adjusting her rumpled sweater. "Is—um."

She fell silent. Aldon slid his hand down her arm to hold her fingers loosely in his grip, looking up at her. "Um?"

Francesca shook her head.

"Please, Francesca."

She sighed, squeezing his fingers lightly. "Is last night something that—that's common? Because—um. If it's, um, the stress, I think you should really think about asking someone for help with—with whatever it is you need to do. Both—both here, like maybe a unit, and with your, um, other work. Not that, um, I know anything, or that I can, um, really tell you what to do…" Her voice trailed off, before she took another breath. "We're at war, and I just—I don't want to see you like that again, Aldon."

Aldon's tongue tied itself into knots. "It's not—" he started, but his words failed him, and he fell silent, thinking over what he could say. Whatever he said, last night had happened, and she had seen the results of it first-hand. Worst, he didn't know what had happened last night. Try as he might, the last thing he remembered was his third glass of brandy, watching the fire burn down in the grate in the darkness of his parlour. He had been thinking about Cedric; about Cedric and the Welsh, about the many people who had died in the Lower Alleys, about their own troops that had died thus far. He had been thinking about how many more people were going to die as the war went on. He had been thinking that, regardless of how many people had died or would die, he wouldn't do anything differently.

It was better to die on his feet than to live on his knees. It was better to live on his feet than it was to die on his knees. Cedric had known that.

Still, it was not his best moment. Of the many times she could have seen him, it was certainly among the worst. "It won't—"

But he couldn't say it wouldn't happen again. It had been months since he had been so drunk—it had been months since he had had a drink. But every time he did drink, it was never in moderation. Whether or not he agreed that he had a problem varied by day, though Ed had gone so far as threaten him with admission to St. Mungo's if he caught him with another drink in hand. Even Neal, whether it was for his own comfort as a Healer or not, insisted on searching half of Rosier Place for drugs every week.

The last time he had gotten so intoxicated, he had promptly gone to Grimmauld Place and demanded to see her. And he couldn't remember most of last night. He couldn't promise that she'd never see it again, because the past showed that he couldn't keep that promise. The next time he was drunk, and if the past year was any indication, there would be a next time, there was no guarantee he wouldn't run right to her.

He could admit to his history, which judging from last night was perhaps not so much a history as an occasional but rare present. But, given that she had just agreed to _date_ him, he hesitated to say so.

_Dating _wasn't his ideal, but it was something. He didn't want to give Francesca a reason to end their newly started relationship, particularly in less time than it had taken last time. A history of alcohol abuse with occasional but rare relapses did not sell him as a good and responsible husband.

And Francesca had given him an easy out. He could blame it on the stress of his position—but if he did, then the reasonable thing to do would be to ask for help.

"With my background, it is hard to know who to trust, Francesca," he tried, but it sounded weak even to his ears. He could rely more on Sirius—he had done so before, since Sirius had planned and executed multiple raids to disrupt Voldemort's supply chains and steal materials. He had relied on Harry and her friend for sabotage work, and he relied on many people for information. More obviously, he was a bloody _Truth-Speaker_, and in theory he was the one who should be least likely to be fooled.

"Archie and Sirius have a unit at Grimmauld Place. Neal has two units at Queenscove, and he didn't know most of them personally before they went in residence there." Francesca swallowed. "Just—think about it, Aldon, and you have so much more to do now, too. I—I think you need help, both to defend the manor and on your other work."

Alex was coming in next week. Alex and his unit of dhampir, and Rosier Place was the only safehouse without a trained unit yet. Rosier Place also had Aldon and his books, and the knowledge of more than a dozen spies littering the Ministry, up into Voldemort's inner circle. He had reasons to ask for the unit to be assigned to him.

It would likely also be most comfortable for everyone else for Alex and his unit to be assigned to Rosier Place. Lina had extensive experience working with the dhampir, and Aldon somehow doubted that most of the other safehouses would be comfortable with a group of, with the exception of Alex, non-magical part-vampires within their walls. Neal had already said that, with American policies on creatures, most of the residents of Queenscove would be decidedly uncomfortable with a unit of part-vampires in-house.

As for his own work, the counterintelligence work he needed to do now was enough for another person. Counterintelligence would have to go to him—there was no choice. He was the Truth-Speaker, and therefore their best chance of identifying and rooting out Voldemort's spies in their ranks. He could begin counterintelligence efforts and continue managing at least some of his usual responsibilities with his usual spies. But developing new informants, or any additional responsibilities that might arise, such as sabotage missions, or meeting contacts, or any surprises… there weren't enough hours in a day. He did need to sleep, and he was now _dating_ someone.

Aldon let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "I will think about asking for help, Francesca. I will."

XXX

Something had happened over the past few days. The _Daily Prophet _had nothing, only endless articles celebrating Voldemort's new Ministry and warning the world of the dangers of the insurgents, including Black, the Lord Potter, Moody, and so many others. Including Draco himself, though mentions of him, his corruption charges, and his supposed treason had fallen off in the last few weeks.

Over the last month, the Irish had become a central and polarizing theme—the Irish, and their British collaborators. Draco had checked the statement in _Bridge_, from months ago. In June, at least, after the Lower Alleys had burned, the Irish had been part of Black's group opposing Voldemort, but it seemed from the more recent articles that they had broken off entirely to act on their own interests. _Bridge_ hadn't been so clear, of course, but Draco could read between the lines as well as anyone else. Black had condemned Irish revolt, but it had been a condemnation of means, not of the end result.

But the last few days had been different. At first, he couldn't work out what was different; it had been quiet, quieter than expected from some areas of Rosier Place. Rosier and the former Lady Rosier had been absent, as had Moody, or otherwise locked in meetings—he hadn't seen any of them anywhere near as often as he had come to expect. Rosier was one matter, since Draco only saw him occasionally anyway, but he had become used to seeing the former Lady Rosier and Professor Moody walking the grounds at least once a day. Their usual rounds, he suspected.

Then, there was the tension. No one said anything to him about it, but he could feel it from the others at Rosier Place. The two new people, trainees or students or something of the like, radiated anticipation and interest, the group in the library exuded worry and concern, and even Rosier himself, when he saw him, gave off a suffocating mix of tiredness and intense determination.

There had been a meeting two nights ago, for which the Lord Potter, the Lord Black, and Archie had come, bringing with them a blonde woman that Draco only recognized from the newspapers—Saoirse Riordan, one of the Irish leaders, who carried herself with both confidence and well-hidden anxiety. He had hovered outside the door, trying to eavesdrop, but the door was thick and heavily warded. Instead, he had waited nearby in another reception room to pick up the emotions of the meeting members as they walked out.

Most of them had given off anticipation, nervousness, or fear, but all of it had been overlaid by an iron sense of determination. They hadn't said anything, but he had followed, watching as they disappeared through the Portkey room that Rosier was now using in his manor instead of the Floo. An hour after that, he had seen the former Lady Rosier and Moody walking across the grounds, but not on the patrol route that he had become accustomed to seeing from them and the two trainees they had following them around. They were heading to the wards, leaving the grounds.

The next evening, he had seen Rosier, the former Lady Rosier and Moody returning, this time from the Portkey room. They had looked like hell. The former Lady Rosier and Moody were wearing stained and dirty clothing, moving slowly with tiredness even if their eyes were uncommonly sharp, but it was Rosier who was the most disturbed. His expression was blank, but his emotions were roiling, suppressed anger and shock and heavy despair, punching him ten feet away where he sat in the blue parlour.

He examined the wall of information he had put together from the newspapers and from his own observations and information, feeling frustrated. Something had happened, something serious, but no one had said anything to him. Harry, his most reliable source, hadn't come by in the past few days, and he didn't belong anywhere in the resistance yet that would get him more information.

The information he had worked out, just by keeping track of the news and his own observations, built him an idea of the structure of the resistance. The Lord Potter, the former Lady Rosier, and Moody were clearly in charge of any military action—between the Lord Potter's history as an Auror, the former Lady Rosier's own actions at the coup, and Moody being a former Auror and Defense professor, it was only logical. On top of that, Abernathy had specifically said that he would talk to Lord Potter about a new position for him. The Lord Black and Archie handled information, especially as it went out through _Bridge_ and with their other allies—the Lord Black he knew because his mother had outright told him that he was her connection, and Archie because of his involvement with _Bridge._ Archie's girlfriend, Hermione Granger, had been listed in _Bridge _as the representative of the British Students Association, all chapters, so it would make sense for her to be another international link.

He wondered, offhand, what Voldemort would think of this information. Would it be worth slipping from Rosier Place to try to trade it all for Pansy's freedom? But if he did, he would directly be putting Harry into more danger. Harry, he knew, had been involved in at least one mission, to the Floo Regulatory Authority. But Harry was so powerful, and Pansy was so much more helpless. Harry could probably survive anything, she was nothing if not a survivor, and if Draco actually thought there was a reasonable chance that Voldemort would hear him out, he might have taken the information he had and tried to bargain for Pansy's freedom.

But it was too risky—too much of a pipe dream to hope that it would work, and even if it did, Pansy would despise him for putting Harry in more danger. If Rosier kicked him out, it might be worth it, but until then Draco was better off on this side. Here, if he could just find a place for himself, he might get access to the resources that would help him help Pansy.

There was a knock at his door and Draco, still thinking it over, went to open it.

"Do you have a moment?" Rosier asked, with a slight inclination of his head.

Draco stepped back from the door, welcoming him in with a wave of his hand. It wasn't like he really had much choice, but Rosier did always ask. No matter what else he did, the man was polite and knew the rules of pureblood etiquette.

Rosier walked in but didn't go sit in either the sofa or the armchair, as Draco had expected. Instead, he walked over to Draco's wall of information and studied it. One finger tapped at the list of names, and his eyes travelled over the threads that Draco had used to tie different pins together—red thread for blood-lines, white thread for known alliances. Draco used it to predict where people fell.

Most of the former Dark families or the SOW Party families fell on Voldemort's side. Even if Voldemort wanted to destroy their status and way of life, both their blood connections and their past alliances meant that they were more likely to stand by Voldemort than to switch sides entirely to the Light faction. It was a problem.

"This is a good analysis," Rosier said finally, turning around to look at Draco. Seen full on, Draco could see that Rosier's hair wasn't as carefully done as it was normally. His skin was too pale, and he radiated tiredness and something else. Sickness, maybe.

"I know." Draco crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn't read Rosier very well—aside from the tiredness, it could be sickness, it could be sadness, it could be resignation. "What of it?"

Rosier sighed. "Statement, please."

"I intend no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone currently residing at Rosier Place." Draco frowned, annoyed. It had been weeks since Rosier had demanded the statement from him. "What's this about, Rosier?"

"In a minute." Rosier sat down in the armchair, nodding at the sofa. "I need a few more answers, first. Consider this a job interview, Malfoy."

"A job interview," Draco said flatly, even if his mind was whirring. He knew that Rosier did something, because he was involved in too many high-level meetings for any other conclusion. But he had never been able to put a pin on it—Rosier was a Truth-Speaker, a fact that he flaunted everywhere, but his skill set otherwise didn't seem to fit easily into any particular role. He was terrible at duelling, and he had no international connections of note. As friendly as he could be at Hogwarts, his relationships to Draco had always seemed surface-deep, with few exceptions. Rosier had floated through Hogwarts with a flippant smile, rather than developing any deep connections like Draco and Pansy and Harry had.

Still, Draco needed something to do. "Go on, then. Ask your questions."

"What do you think of the current situation?" Rosier asked mildly, studying him, and Draco's mouth twisted.

He couldn't lie. He knew he couldn't lie.

"What do you want from me?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes. "Do you want me to tell you that it's good? My father is dead, Rosier; my father is dead, and so is Lord Riddle. So are a dozen people, including your father. Pansy is stuck there, beside Voldemort, and no one is doing anything about that. What do you want me to say?"

Rosier blinked slowly. "All right. What do you think of Voldemort, then?"

"I hate him," Draco hissed, stepping forward and putting his hands on the back of the sofa and leaning forward to look at Rosier. "He killed my father—Pansy might have cast the spell, but he forced it. He destroyed our lives, and he's destroying our country."

"Is he?" Rosier asked idly, leaning back in the armchair to look up at Draco. "What about our country do you think he's destroying?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Everything?"

"Be specific." Rosier half-smiled. "He hasn't changed everything. He kept the laws surrounding blood equality the same, for example. If we want to be extremely practical, other than the fact that we're at war, the primary change is that he has suspended, or eliminated, all noble privilege. If you look at what he says, he is not so different from Lord Riddle."

"He is completely different from Lord Riddle." Draco straightened, looking away. "Lord Riddle was reasonable, and he was never violent."

"Lord Riddle never needed to be violent." Rosier shrugged diffidently. "He was a pureblood and a noble, and he had been in power for a very long time. What about the Lord Riddle, then? Did you admire him?"

"Who didn't?" Draco stared at Rosier, trying to read him, but his face only showed mild interest, and his emotions hadn't changed since he had entered. Halfblood or not, Rosier had been raised as a proper noble, so he carried himself like one. "You were a Slytherin too, Rosier. You were in the SOW Party; how could you not?"

"My blood-status rather put a dampener on my admiration." Rosier's lips tugged in another half-smile. "I couldn't admire Lord Riddle—not when his laws so severely limited my future. So, what do you think of those, Malfoy?"

Draco fell silent. A few months ago, he would have had no hesitation in saying that he wholeheartedly supported them. They were necessarily to protect traditional wizarding culture, he would have said; Muggleborns and halfbloods were dangerous, he would have said. Their magic was wild, and they had poor magical control, so they needed to be kept separate and out of society for the protection of everyone else. Maybe the law needed a little more finesse, so that those like Harry were excluded from them, but overall Draco would have said that he agreed with them.

That was a few months ago. Now, there was Harry, and there was Rosier, and Draco wasn't so foolish as to think that the group of witches and wizards who met in Rosier's library weren't all lesser-blooded as well. He hadn't worked out what exactly that group did, but clearly it was something based on Rosier's own reaction only a few months ago. They were all intelligent and well-spoken, and he had never seen any of them lose control of their magic. He had never felt threatened by them.

He didn't know the blood-statuses of the people he had worked with on either his stint in basic training or with the remedial group he had helped Professor Lupin to train. If he had to guess, most of basic training had probably been purebloods, and most of the remedial group lesser-blooded. This should probably have worked in favour of pureblood supremacy, because the first group was so much more competent than the second, but it didn't.

It didn't work because the first group had a thousand more advantages than the second one, and they weren't nearly so much better as to justify it. Yes, the first group knew their way around a wand, but half the second group had never touched one and never would have without the war. The first group had been educated, and half the second group couldn't read. And yet, when they got over those difficulties, the second group learned just as fast and just as well and they had a better attitude.

Right now, he had no idea what he thought. He didn't think his overall beliefs had changed—with a few exceptions, purebloods _were_ superior. They had a history, a culture, and except for outliers like Harry, they were more powerful, more controlled in their magic. They had gifts—halfbloods and Muggleborns didn't have gifts. And anyway, his father and Lord Riddle were both brilliant, powerful wizards, they wouldn't have believed something and fought for something so hard if it wasn't true. To say that halfbloods and Muggleborns were equal would be to say that his father had dedicated his whole life to something wrong, something unjust and unfair and unequal.

His father had loved him. His father had been good, and kind, and Draco had a thousand memories swirling in his head of his father teaching him how to fly, of his father soothing him when he cried, of his father bringing home gifts for him and his mother for no real reason, only because he saw something in Diagon Alley that he thought they would like. His father had been a good person, and his father wouldn't have promoted pureblood supremacy, something that prejudiced and excluded so many people, unless it was true.

Harry had to be an exception. It was the only thing that made sense.

But Harry said that she wasn't.

He shoved the thought away.

"I don't know," he said finally, looking up at Rosier. "I think those laws had a purpose, and I agree with them."

"Liar," Rosier murmured, but he didn't press it. "What about the nobility? I suppose you don't support the elimination of the nobility, either."

"No, of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because the nobility has been educated to govern the population," Draco replied, frowning. Rosier knew this—he knew that Rosier had had the same noble etiquette teachers that he had had, and this was standard material. "_Noblesse oblige_, Rosier. As nobles, we have rights, but we have duties also; and such duties thereby validate our rights. We are noble, so we govern in the best interests of all witches and wizards in Britain."

"One could argue that the principle of _noblesse oblige_ obliges us to advocate for a future in which all witches and wizards in Britain have a voice of their own in our mutual governance," Rosier pointed out, leaning forward in interest and propping his chin on one hand. "All _noblesse oblige_ states is that as the privileged, we have a duty to those who are less privileged."

Draco scowled at him, searching for an answer. He felt like this had been covered in his noble etiquette textbook, but all he could remember was the general statement. The nobility had additional rights and privileges because they had additional duties and obligations. One of those obligations was governance, and the nobility were specifically educated for governance; Draco and Pansy and even Rosier hadn't given up their childhoods to endless noble tutors if not in preparation for their later responsibilities.

He didn't have an answer. "You went through the same education I did, Rosier. You know why."

"The fact that I had the same education doesn't mean I don't question it." Rosier tilted his head. "What do you think of us, then? You have been here for months."

"Why are you asking me this now?" Draco snapped, walking around the sofa to sit down. "I've already tried out two different roles in your organization—isn't that enough?"

"In general training and then teaching the remedial group." Rosier glanced back over at the wall of information that Draco had put together. "Short stints at each. My work requires rather…" He paused. "More. So, what do you think of us, Malfoy?"

Draco couldn't lie. "What are you asking from me, Rosier? You want me to say that I've lost all the beliefs I held before and that I'm on your side?"

"Would you?" Rosier smiled, without a hint of true amusement.

"It would be a lie if I did," Draco snapped, annoyed. "I don't believe your alliance has the right of it. I don't agree with blood equality, and I don't believe in wide enfranchisement. There were many good things about the world we had before, and even if there might have been some problems, your side will destroy all the good alongside the bad. My only problem is that I don't have anywhere else to go. There's no side here trying to bring back the old world—there's only Voldemort, and there's you. You're better than the alternative."

"That's true." Rosier hadn't moved much in the last few minutes. "So, where do you stand, Malfoy? Between us and Voldemort, where do your loyalties lie?"

Draco glared at him. He couldn't lie. "Not to Voldemort, but not to your alliance, either. I want to get Pansy out, and I care about Harry and Blaise, but aside from that—I don't know."

"You've collected a lot of information on that wall." Aldon stared at Draco, his bright eyes unnerving. "What do you plan on doing with it?"

"Using it for my protection." Draco looked away.

"Liar." Rosier sounded amused. "Or, more accurately—half-truth."

"Fine, I thought about using it to buy Pansy from Voldemort." Draco scowled again, shooting Rosier a look that dared him to comment. "But I have no plans on doing it right now."

"It wouldn't work anyway." Rosier straightened, looking back over at the wall in question thoughtfully. "Voldemort and his followers would likely kill you as soon as they saw you, and even with this information I do not think that Voldemort would release her. She is a prize for him, you must realize."

"She is a prize for anyone," Draco retorted, crossing his arms over his chest again. "Which is why we should be trying to get her back."

Rosier stared at him a moment, unblinking. "Unfortunately, she is very closely guarded. It would likely be suicide to attempt it right now."

Draco glanced at the wall, his expression tightening. "We should still be trying."

Rosier inclined his head slightly, which Draco suspected was all the reaction he would get from the man. "Do you have plans on betraying us? Sending an owl to Voldemort with the information you have here? Any plans to cause us harm?"

"Not right now." Draco looked away. "But that could change."

There was a very long moment of silence, one that Draco didn't try to break. Rosier would get to what he wanted sooner or later, and it wasn't like Draco had anything else to do. Instead, Draco stared at his wall.

He wanted to know what had happened, over the past few days. This visit had to be related—something had happened, and it had been bad. Based on the questions that Rosier had asked, he wondered if someone had betrayed them, and if he was now testing everyone. But then again, he had called this a job interview.

He frowned, glancing at the wall. He had always known that Rosier had to occupy some high-level position. Was he in charge of _espionage?_

It would make sense. He was a Truth-Speaker, and better able to identify enemy spies in their own organization. His gift probably made him better able to select spies from the outside as well, and between a childhood spent within the SOW Party and his year outside, he had had the opportunity to develop a lot of connections that others hadn't had. Surface-deep most of those relationships might have been, but he was still well-known, still someone that a person in trouble might think to contact. Unlike the Lord Black, he also had a certain reputation of seriousness that the elder Black lacked, and the network within Wizarding Britain that the younger Black had never developed.

"You want me to be a spy for you," Draco said, looking at Rosier. "You're in charge of espionage and you're interviewing me to be a _spy!_"

Rosier snorted. "Of course not. You would be useless as a spy—you're too identifiable, and Voldemort already hates you and suspects you. I can't slip you into another major family because Voldemort has put a price on your head, and with everything you just said, I can't embed you into a Light faction family either. They'd never trust you. No, I was interviewing you to see if you might be a fit to be my assistant. You have a good grasp of the politics, but, as you said yourself, even if you don't have plans to harm us right now, that could change. You might think we are better than the alternative, but that only means that if you find something you think might be better, you'll betray all of us for it."

"So, I failed, then." Draco sighed, looking away. He couldn't help his beliefs.

He loved his father, and he couldn't believe that his father had been wrong. Not about pureblood supremacy, not about the nobility. His father had contributed his whole life to the cause of pureblood supremacy, as had Lord Riddle, and Draco himself had been educated for a world with the nobility. If those beliefs were wrong, then what had his father been fighting for all this time? What had his father been protecting him and his family from? Why did Draco spend his childhood in endless lessons, and why was the nobility still the governing system if it was wrong?

"You are fortunate that I am rather short on candidates," Rosier replied dryly. "Anyone else with your extensive knowledge of the former nobility and other major families is already occupied. I'm satisfied to accept your lukewarm, better-than-the-alternative loyalty, though you can rest assured that I will be checking you regularly to see whether your intentions have changed."

"What happened?" Draco's voice was sharp. He could not believe that this had come out of nowhere—nor could he believe that Rosier would so easily accept his answers. If he were the spymaster for the alliance, he would not have accepted his own responses, so the fact that Rosier did accept them meant that whatever had happened, it had to be more serious than he had thought.

"Voldemort massacred Wales in retaliation for the Irish rebellion," Rosier replied, and for all that his expression and voice were calm and emotionless, Draco felt a small flare of anger from him. "Cedric Diggory is dead. We have twenty-three known survivors, though many of the undocumented Muggleborn and halfblood witches and wizards living within the Muggle world were likely spared as well."

"The Greengrasses—" Draco said, then he cut himself off, feeling gaping shock stretching underneath him. They hadn't been his friends, and Daphne Greengrass had been a bitch of the highest order, but—but—

He couldn't believe that they were dead. Astoria Greengrass had just turned fifteen last year, and she was terrified of Thestrals.

"The Greengrasses are not on the survivors list that I received." Rosier hesitated, then sighed. "But with their pureblood and noble background, it is possible that Voldemort would have accepted them into his ranks instead of killing them. I am waiting for further information."

To Draco, being forced to join with Voldemort's side didn't sound much better than death.

"What would I be expected to do, then?" he asked finally, looking at Rosier. Assisting the alliance's spymaster would get him access to more information, including more information that he could use to persuade them to put Pansy higher in their priorities. More information, too, would give him more to bargain with generally.

"I need you to assist in decoding messages, first," Rosier said, leaning forward, his hawk-like eyes intense. "I will also need you to consider who might be responsive to becoming an informant, and then coordinate the outreach to them on that point. You may also need to take on other, more active, responsibilities such as meeting with informants."

"You would trust me that much?" Draco stared at Rosier, somewhat suspicious. It did sound a little too good to be true.

Rosier half-smiled. "You are a better dueller than I am, Malfoy. You're better able to escape from any difficult situations away from the safehouses, and in the event you don't, you're more expendable than I am. You'll understand, too, that I won't be giving you free and ready access to everything—in the event that you are captured, I don't need you giving everything up to save yourself. In fact, should you be captured, the only thing you should expect from me is a quick death. That goes doubly if I find that you have betrayed us. So?"

"What's my alternative?" Draco asked.

"Continue sitting here." Rosier shrugged. "We can still smuggle you to Geneva to be with your mother. You can make another attempt in Lord Potter's general forces or return to Professor Lupin and his remedial training group. Wait for another offer from another group to come around, though I think with your admissions today, I will be keeping a closer eye on you than I did previously."

There was a long pause, while Draco thought his options over. On one hand, it was something to do, and it was a good position that would put him in a better place to help Pansy. He would have access to more information than he did currently. It was also considerably more dangerous—not just from the other side, but from Rosier himself. From Rosier's demeanour and his emotions, Draco had the sense that Rosier would do exactly as he said. His words weren't stated as a threat, only as blunt fact.

Harry was out doing dangerous things already. She had broken into the Floo Regulatory Authority, and Draco knew her well enough to know that what her father had her doing, brewing potions and helping the refugees, would not satisfy her long-term. She was too used to acting on her own, whether as Harry or as Rigel, and he had no doubt that she would find a way to the centre of the war without help. Pansy, too, was in a position of danger, and she was there because she had helped Draco.

If they could withstand danger, so could he.

"Fine," he said. "I'll do it. When do you want me to start?"

"No time like the present," Rosier said, standing up with a sigh. "Come. I will at least walk you through the book codes today."

Over the next few weeks, Draco set himself to decoding messages while Rosier began the lengthy process of interviewing every person within the alliance to identify any enemy spies. Half of the Light faction was, predictably, highly offended that Rosier, a Dark, former SOW Party noble, had dared to question their loyalty, and Rosier was simply not willing to engage in a game of assuaging their hurt egos while he performed his duties. Only the willing submission of both the Lords Potter and Black to the same questioning encouraged them to comply. Draco himself was questioned every few days, which he figured was understandable considering his admissions.

Draco didn't want the world envisioned by Rosier and his alliance. It was only better than the alternative.

Most of the messages he was set to decoding weren't critical in and of themselves, but as a whole they painted a better picture of the war than he had had before. There were fewer notes from within Voldemort's camp than Draco would have expected, though Rosier always took those messages for himself to decode. Too sensitive, Draco guessed, for someone with his lukewarm loyalty. Instead, Draco received about half the messages from within the Ministry of Magic, other enterprises, and the former noble families. He learned that the Ministry was frozen in a state of fear—people were still attending to their jobs as per usual, but the atmosphere had been permeated with a thick, pervading sense of anxiety, so things simply weren't getting done.

There had been two thousand, two hundred and seventy-two witches and wizards registered as living within the Welsh borders. That did not include some two hundred undocumented witches and wizards, all of whom had been living as Muggles in one of the Muggle cities and had managed to report in somewhere—more than half took off to Ireland, which was reported in to Black, and the rest reported directly into the British International Association. Rosier reported from his own spies that several prominent families, including the Greengrasses, had survived; they had bartered their knowledge of Wizarding Britain and Wizarding British politics to buy themselves their survival. Aside from that, there were twenty-three survivors.

Two thousand, two hundred, and thirteen witches and wizards were presumed to have died in Wales. Of those, perhaps two hundred had worked for the Ministry of Magic in some form or another.

Being a Ministry worker was no longer safe. Being loyal to Ministry meant nothing in the current administration and was not a protection against being murdered if Voldemort's whims demanded it. Everyone within the Ministry knew someone who had been killed in Wales. And for every person who had been killed in Wales, two other Ministry employees decided that working at the Ministry wasn't worth it, and quietly abandoned their posts. Maybe more.

Within the other nobility, there were whispers. Finch sent reports that his family, and many of Light-sided families who were not formally on either side, were deeply worried. His father and mother wanted to open negotiations to join the treaty alliance, but his grandmother was too proud. His parents had left their work at the Ministry, and their estates had been fortified. He also reported on the atmosphere at Hogwarts School—many of the students were confused, and there was more conflict than usual. The Scots and their clan-kin were carrying themselves with more pride, with Ernest MacMillan in particular walking around with a certain pomp, but there were dozens of students mourning the loss of their old world. As distant as Dumbledore and the other professors tried to keep the war, a version of it was creeping into the school.

Word from every corner of the wizarding world that Draco collected news from was worried, confused, or afraid. People were _afraid_ of Voldemort, but many of them were equally afraid of Rosier and his alliance.

Draco set himself to his new work. There was little else he could do—for now.

XXX

"I have an announcement to make."

Archie looked up from his dinner, a hearty plate of stroganoff noodles in cream sauce with meatballs on the side that could be added for him and the others and mushrooms for Harry. Harry wasn't as strict of a vegetarian as she used to be, but she still opted, when possible, to avoid meat in her diet. She, too, had looked up from her plate of noodles and sauce, her eyes wide in surprise.

Aunt Lily was looking around the table, a tired and grim expression on her face. "I—" She stopped and sighed. "I'll be leaving on a tour of the world just after the holidays. Addy will come with me. I managed to contact my old—my old publicist. He's arranging it all for me."

"Publicist?" Dad looked at Aunt Lily like she had grown another head, while Uncle James winced. Aunt Lily herself didn't look too happy about her announcement, only resigned.

"Publicist," she confirmed, glancing at Archie and Harry. "You need more international support. I can bring it. I…"

"I think you need to start from the beginning, Lil," Uncle James said, glancing at them and resting one hand on her back. "They don't know about your past."

Lily sighed again. "Well—as you may know, twenty years ago I was on AIM's winning Triwizard Tournament team. Harry probably watched the recording with the Hogwarts team, and if I remember AIM right, they would have talked about it endlessly. AIM hasn't won it since my year."

Archie glanced at Harry, who shrugged slightly—her way of saying that yes, she had seen the recording, but she didn't have anything to add at that precise moment. She was tired—still recovering from her jaunt into Wales. They had slept a little the first night, none at all the second night, and Archie suspected that she had been having trouble sleeping since she returned. He imagined that, whatever she had seen, it had to have been bad.

More than two thousand dead, if they calculated it correctly off the census records and the other cobbled-together reports.

"That's about right," Archie said, with a weak sort of smile. "All of fourth year, the past games were all anyone could talk about."

Aunt Lily smiled back at him, apparently grateful for the confirmation. "You remember what the games are like? From—from the North American League Banquet, the chance to meet so many people from around the world. The parties. And the media attention. Who was the star for your year?"

"Fei Long Lin, Neal's cousin." Archie laughed, and the sound was only a little forced. He knew he was having a conversation with Aunt Lily that no one else in the room could relate to, and in the current context, it felt out of place, awkward. "_Quodpot Monthly_ published an interview with her and included a full page spread. I think a third of the guys at the school had it pasted on their walls, and maybe a fifth of the girls. Neal was so annoyed, kept yelling at people about how that was his _cousin_ and that she was really not as charismatic as the interview made her out to be. Cleon asked Neal to introduce him to her; Neal decked him."

"_Quodpot Monthly _was one of the better ones," Aunt Lily said, her smile becoming nostalgic. "But those pin-up spreads—I wouldn't be surprised if a third of my schoolmates had me on their walls. The end of that year and the next year, they were…"

She fell silent, looking away. "They were wild. Interviews everywhere, especially after we won. People wanted me to sing for them, and then there were the concerts. It was—it was fun for the first six months, but afterwards… I was Lily Evans, the Siren. Everyone knew me."

Another long pause, then she blew out a breath, her smile disappearing. "Or, they thought they knew me. There was so much speculation. Who was I sleeping with? Who did my glamour charms? What did I look like naked? Did I cross the line on my last album, had I entranced the audience beyond permissible grounds, was I brainwashing people? Did I do Dark magic in the bathrooms between sets?" She smiled ruefully. "Esteban, my publicist, used to get a room next to mine when we were on tour, just so he could chase the tabloids off the roof and away from the windows. We had an ongoing argument—did we use a No-Maj hotel so the Aurors could cite them for using brooms, or did we use a magical one so that we could Apparate back afterwards?"

James moved his hand around to squeeze her shoulder. Lily turned to him with a sad sort of smile, and continued. "Trish would show me the poll results, you know. There was always a bump in donations to scholarship funds for foreign students whenever I mentioned how there were no schools that allowed newbloods in Britain, whenever I talked about how the Ministry was considering passing new laws so that we weren't even employable in the magical world. I was doing a good thing, raising awareness and fundraising. But I just—I couldn't live like that. I came back to visit my parents for a couple weeks, and it was like—it was like a weight had been lifted from me. No one cared who Lily Evans was, no one needed me to smile at them or sign something for their kid when they recognized me at the market. My parents asked me about Trish and my experimental charms, and I realized that—I realized that between her studies and my touring schedule I hadn't seen her in months. I hadn't touched my charms, at least as they didn't relate to the singing and stage scenery and so on, for even longer. Then, I bumped into James at Diagon Alley and… well, we started "stepping out", as he liked to call it, and there was an article in the paper about a private start-up specializing in experimental charms that was actually interested in recruiting Muggleborns, and suddenly… I could see a future for _me_, and not for _Lily Evans, the Siren_."

She sighed deeply, looking down. "I went back to America for a few months, just to wrap up my commitments before I returned to Britain. And that was it. I didn't look back. Trish was upset, and I'll always regret losing her friendship, but I don't think she ever understood how difficult it was for me."

Archie frowned and didn't reply, grappling with his own feelings. On one hand, he did understand. Aunt Lily hadn't chosen to be powerful, and she hadn't chosen to become famous. She was like Harry, who never asked for power but got it anyway, and just like Harry, she had wanted to focus on her own interests. She hadn't asked for fame, or power, and she hadn't asked for responsibility. She wanted to focus on her own life, just as Harry did. And just like Harry, because of her power, she had been pulled into something else.

And she had walked away. She had decided that she wanted a quieter life, which was something that she had a right to do. No one should need to let their power choose their paths for them, and she hadn't walked away completely. Archie had heard the arguments she had tried to use at the SOW Party Galas before. Hermione, too, had said something once about how the Potters provided both news and an annual donation to the British International Association.

But she could have done more. And she had walked away.

_With great power comes great responsibility_. John had said so more than once, when he talked about the ethics of being a Natural Legilimens. And while it came from a No-Maj comic book, Archie thought that applied here, and on some level he couldn't help but be angry. She could have done _so much more_, and she didn't, because she had chosen herself first.

But didn't she have a right to do that? Didn't they all have a right to choose themselves first? Where was the line between their freedom to choose their own lives, and their responsibility to others?

"I understand," Harry was saying, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "I'd—I'd like to do the same, one day."

Archie didn't understand. He had put his dreams of being a Healer on hold for the war, and while he couldn't say he had done it gladly, he had done it because he had felt a responsibility to do it. But maybe that was different, and he was different, and he didn't want to argue over choices made in the past.

"Yes." Aunt Lily's expression was sad, and she glanced at Archie's tight-lipped expression. "But you—we—need more help. I still have a lot of my old contacts, so I'm hoping that I can raise the profile of the war internationally, raise more support and put pressure for more military and humanitarian aid from the other countries. Maybe recruit among the British half-bloods and Muggleborns who stayed abroad."

"That sounds great, Aunt Lily," Archie said, letting a smile brighten his face and hoping that no sign of his inner feelings were apparent on the surface. They had needed help months ago. They had needed help before another two thousand people had died. "When do you go?"

"January 2nd." Aunt Lily smiled in relief. "I spent the last four months writing a new album, which I'm recording on the fourth, and then I'll be on tour promoting it. Most of the music is about the war, so I'll bring it back to our situation as much as I can."

Archie made his smile brighten a little more, to the trillion-watts that Harry used to tease him over. "We'll have a big send-off over the holidays, then, and maybe you can give us a private concert?"

"That sounds wonderful, Archie." Lily reached across the table for another serving of stroganoff noodles. "I'll do that."

Wales was a breaking point—not just for Aunt Lily, but for thousands of other people. With Wales, Voldemort had declared that no one was safe. No one could trust that they could simply keep their heads down, try to weather the storm unscathed. Hermione was inundated with refugee logistics, not just from those who came forward to the alliance but for those who slipped off with their own Portkeys, or even just took off to the south of England to Apparate across the channel into France.

Those refugees were a problem. Most of them were purebloods, or at least historically wizarding, and of that kind that had bought into decades of propaganda about halfbloods and Muggleborns. They didn't trust Hermione or the British International Association to get them out of the country, and instead took unnecessary risks of their own. There were multiple Splinchings in the south of England, closest to the French border, which they only heard about after the fact from Aldon's Ministry informants; those caught were charged with treason, though none had yet come to trial.

Hermione thought Splinching was one of the better outcomes. Those who tried to Apparate also ran into the risk that they would undershoot the Apparition and end up in the middle of the sea. For those who didn't want to risk Apparition, Portkeys were flooding the black and grey markets, and discreet advertisements littered wizarding communities. But there was a real risk that the Portkeys would either transport those who took them straight into Voldemort's hands or that they might just fail and dump a group in the middle of the Channel.

Even if everyone arrived relatively safe and sound, however, it was only the start of Hermione's problems. Simply put, the French were refusing to take more refugees. Their justifications were that they were taking on far too many refugees outside the normal routes, and these refugees were prone to causing trouble. They weren't accustomed to the No-Maj world, and the Ministère de Magique claimed a drastic increase in the number of breaches of the Statute of Secrecy. They were not happy.

The other wizarding nations were no different. The primary countries taking refugees, ranging from Wizarding America to Wizarding Australia, were becoming increasingly more hesitant. Most of the nations accepting refugees were closely integrated with the No-Maj world, so all of them were nervous about potential risks to the Statute of Secrecy. Hermione was hard-pressed to convince the other nations that the refugees would be perfectly fine, especially when France was screaming up and down that the refugees they had were breaking the Statute left, right and centre. Hermione had been in Geneva for the last week, trying to convince her partners about the need for more humanitarian aid. Aunt Lily's help would be sorely needed.

The witches and wizards that didn't try to run were starting to hunker down and fortify, or they were picking sides. Some, like the Weasleys and the Bones, quietly joined Archie's alliance. Others, primarily Dark families that had formerly been part of the SOW Party, had either through fear or inclination, pledged their loyalty to Voldemort's cause. The _Prophet_ had run a whole series of articles on the Ministry's investigations into subversive cells, culminating in the discovery of a major rebel group in Wales planning a terrorist strike on the Ministry of Magic itself.

Archie thought it was a weak explanation. A Welsh terrorist plot did not justify the involvement of vampires and Dementors, or genocide against the entire nation. _Nothing_ justified genocide, which was exactly what Voldemort had done.

More than two thousand dead, and their international allies, such as they were, were beginning to balk at the number of refugees. More than two thousand dead, and dozens of families were openly declaring their loyalty to Voldemort.

A week later, he was at Rosier Place in one of Aldon's many reception rooms, pacing. Aldon was watching him, hawk-like, from the sofa. Archie had been updating him on the international situation, including Aunt Lily's news, while Aldon provided a summary for him to take back to Dad and Uncle James about Voldemort's movements.

"I don't understand," Archie muttered, running his hands through his hair. "Voldemort just _massacred_ the entire population of Wales. And people are joining him?"

"People are joining him because it looks like he'll win," Aldon explained calmly, watching as Archie paced. "I expect that they'll quickly regret their actions, because Voldemort is not stable at the best of times. They might be pressed into service, but they won't really be in it—they're likely to break and flee on the battlefield at the first sign of trouble. Or so Lina says."

Archie glanced at Aldon, raising an eyebrow. "That seems unusually optimistic of you, Al."

Aldon shrugged.

Archie shook his head, sighing. He doubted that Aldon accepted that explanation at face value, but Aldon had been caught up in counter-intelligence interviews for the past three weeks. Aldon probably simply hadn't come around to fully analysing the situation. "Honestly, though, I think if people knew how dangerous being close to Voldemort was, they would reconsider."

"In case you've forgotten, I'm a Truth-Speaker," Aldon replied dryly, looking over at him. "You hardly need emphasize your feelings with _honesty. _I know when you are lying."

"There has to be something else that we can do!" Archie stopped pacing, turning to sit in the sofa across from Aldon. "_Anything_ else, to warn people. We put out that article in _Bridge_, and there were those condemnation statements from the ICW. The _Irish Gales_ carried it, as did a few other international news sources—the _American Standard_, _The New York Ghost_. _La Presse Magique._"

"_Bridge_ has a reputation for being a revolutionary's paper," Aldon replied clinically, watching Archie with a tilted head. "And most people have gone through half a century of misinformation about the outside world. They don't follow any international news sources. For most, too, the ICW has only issued trade embargoes against us for nothing worse than following our traditions—"

"You mean, discriminating on blood status," Archie interjected.

"Protecting our valued, pureblood traditions," Aldon repeated. "Whatever else might be said, Archie, the Muggle world has an incredible influence in the international sphere. Muggle technological innovations, their culture—many would say that Lord Riddle was right to shield our world from the influence of the Muggle world, including from halfbloods and Muggleborns who might carry that influence with them as they enter our world."

"Would you?" Archie raised an eyebrow, staring at Aldon. "And what about Chess?"

"In my wizarding culture, Francesca and I would be betrothed or married now, not merely _dating_," Aldon muttered, a touch scathing, then he shook his head. "We are not convincing anyone new within Wizarding Britain just by publishing in _Bridge. _If we want to make an impact, it needs to come from the _Daily Prophet_. Moreover, it cannot be anything that would be published in _Bridge_. It would need to sound completely independent, something that we could plausibly deny as having any involvement with us."

"An article in the _Daily Prophet__?_" Archie repeated, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Something that comes from inside Voldemort's group, do you think?"

Aldon glared at him. "I hardly have any time to plan a raid. I'm only a third of the way through the counter-intelligence interviews."

"That's fine," Archie replied, waving his hand, his smile now set to maniacal. A _raid_—he could plan a raid, or rather Harry and Leo could help him figure out what to do. He pulled out his wand, Summoning paper and a pen. "Just give me the information we need to make whatever we do sound realistic—we'll draft it, plan it, execute it, everything."

"Very well." Aldon sighed deeply, leaning forward. He shut his eyes for a second to collect his thoughts, then opened them when he began. "First, Voldemort is a megalomaniac who rules on fear. In some ways, his methodology is very simple and straightforward. Succeed, and he rewards you. Fail, and he punishes you. It is what attracted those like the Lestranges to him first, because he provided a simple world that was easy for them to understand."

Archie nodded and started taking notes. Some of it he had already known before—he knew, for example, that Voldemort had split his followers into many small units, each led by one of Voldemort's inner circle. He knew that Harry's friend Parkinson, still behind enemy lines, was within Voldemort's inner circle. There were those who said that she had become Voldemort's lover, and that when Voldemort was in certain moods, only Parkinson was able to redirect him.

Parkinson never tortured people herself. Indeed, she never needed to—any insult to her, and Voldemort was prone to ordering any of his usual torture experts into handling it for her. Bellatrix Lestrange was the blunt instrument, the Cruciatus Curse expert, while her son Caelum Lestrange preferred time and far more physical methods that tended to leave the mind intact. Mulciber and Travers, too, were known to enjoy inflicting pain, and any Healers who were unfortunate enough to become involved in the organization were given strict orders not to Heal anyone who had been tortured.

Voldemort's inner circle was a three-ring circus, complete with jealousy and showmanship. Bellatrix Lestrange was deeply jealous of Parkinson's position with Voldemort, and there had been more than one skirmish between the two women, which on a good day simply amused Voldemort, and on a bad one, ended in punishment—usually of Lestrange. The younger Lestrange took every opportunity possible to torture his mother, as well as his father and his uncle, but otherwise did not engage in the game of winning Voldemort's favour; ironically, this only made him rise in Voldemort's esteem. He was trusted, as far as any of Voldemort's inner circle was trusted.

Mulciber, Travers, Dawlish, and McNabb were in a four-way struggle over control of the Ministry of Magic. Dawlish was out of favour, having failed to foresee the Irish rebellion or regain control over the territory, so McNabb was now in charge. The Ministry was shedding officials like a snake shed skin, but McNabb was said to be forcing through even more restrictive laws in the name of national security, and he was not afraid of using his wand to get his way.

The vampires and the Dementors, now called off their duties in Wales, were often included in punishments. The vampires were a frequent sight in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, where the fact that they were underground kept them out of the sunlight and they were a terrifying encouragement for the remaining Ministry workers. The Dementors were allowed free reign in wizarding spaces and could often be seen patrolling Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. A few formerly noble families, the ones that Voldemort trusted least, had also been invited to host the creatures long-term. Archie didn't envy them.

But Voldemort was inclined to trust those who had been beside him the longest, so even the families playing host the vampires would be trusted further than the new arrivals. Those joining today would be likelier to see a death by torture than they were to win his favour, not least because Voldemort was sadistic and deeply enjoyed watching the performances put on by his inner circle. His veneer of respectability was barely skin-deep—and the more the alliance resisted, the more that veneer came off.

The _Daily Prophet_ had spun the events as a rebellion, an issue of law and order, the side of the proper order against new and old insurgents—those that joined Voldemort now were also the ones likeliest to believe that the Welsh casualties were the result of putting down a rebel insurrection, and not the genocide that it was. New recruits would not expect the atmosphere of fear and terror to be as thick within Voldemort's organization as it was without.

"I think that's enough," Archie said finally, tearing the pages of notes off the pad of paper. "I'll put something together."

"Run whatever you decide to do by me, first," Aldon said with a nod. "I will want to ensure that whatever you do doesn't implicate any of my sources."

"Will do." Archie stood up, feeling, if not better, at least somewhat less helpless. "I'll come by when we have a solid plan."

XXX

Dating Aldon, Francesca thought, was a challenge. By comparison, Faleron was easy, even spontaneous. Faleron made plans that were cute but within a range of logical and sensible, and the conversation between them flowed easily. In the midst of war, Francesca understood that their options were limited—she knew that Aldon was busy, and it wasn't like she expected to go anywhere in particular, or even leave the grounds. And considering it was Aldon, even without the war, she wouldn't have expected anything like bowling, or a theme park, or even the classic dinner and a movie.

Really, considering the circumstances, his responsibilities, and his upbringing, Francesca was almost surprised that Aldon managed to fit in as much time for her as he did. There were always small things: a walk in in the sculpture garden for twenty minutes in the afternoon, or in the portrait gallery if he decided it was too cold to go outside, or a game of wizarding chess which she thought neither of them particularly liked apart from the excuse of being together. And they ate dinner together fairly often as well. None of this was a problem.

The chaperones were the problem.

At first, Francesca hadn't even realized that Aldon was quietly ensuring that they were chaperoned. The walks in the sculpture garden and portrait gallery were charming, and while they were in full view of anyone who wanted to look, Francesca never thought much of it. Even when Neal showed up at the first dinner, she hadn't suspected—actually, she had been delighted when Neal had shown up for dinner.

She would never have called Neal one of her closest friends, but between his general presence as an older member of the Duelling Club group that she had befriended and lived with at AIM and the fact that his older brother Will was engaged to Tina, Neal was something like an older cousin. She greeted him with a tight hug, exchanging traditional greetings, Neal in Mandarin and her in Cantonese, before spending two and a half hours catching up. Neal regaled her with Queenscove Castle's apparently irrational dislike of Kel, Graeme, and Fei, and its propensity to put them in multiple compromising and hilarious situations, then caught her up on their other friends back in America. They talked at length about Will and Tina's wedding plans—they were both expected to be in the wedding party, and they debated about the elements of a Chinese wedding that would need to be included, even if the wedding was Western in style. A tea ceremony was an absolute must, they decided, which meant that Francesca would need to teach Tina the appropriate etiquette.

Aldon had sat there, looking increasingly put out as the hours wore on. And at the end of the night, Neal turned to him and, with the biggest, shit-eating grin that Francesca had ever seen, said, "And this is why you shouldn't ask me to be a chaperone."

She had stupidly thought that Aldon wouldn't try it again, but the next night, Archie showed up.

He was worse. Aldon had apparently not informed him that he was to be present as a chaperone, but after ten or fifteen minutes looking increasingly confused, Archie figured it out. He collapsed onto the floor, rolling around bursting with laughter, then he announced between gasps that he would have nothing to do with any chaperoning, and, "Thanks for the invite, Al, but I'll leave you two lovebirds alone to your adorable dinner date."

They had had a perfectly lovely dinner after that, and Francesca had assumed, for no reason that she could now identify, that Aldon would now see that a chaperone just wasn't necessary and leave it alone. And yet, Hermione showed up to dinner on the third night.

Why had Aldon chosen to invite Hermione as a chaperone? Francesca had no idea, but she guessed that every other alternative had been exhausted. She couldn't see Lina agreeing to anything so outrageously silly, and Christie would have only done what Archie had done. She supposed that Sirius had probably refused, based on Archie's information, and yet Hermione had mysteriously agreed.

Francesca worked it out over the appetizer—Hermione was there to lecture Aldon, starting with a pointed comment that chaperones were completely unnecessary. Aldon's response, that it was necessary for Francesca's honour, was a springboard into a very lengthy rant about how Aldon's insistence on a chaperone was infantilizing and was actually incredibly disrespectful because it said that he didn't trust Francesca to know her own mind. Aldon had argued otherwise, of course, and the entire ninety-minute argument throughout which Francesca had said not a word ended with Hermione yelling, loudly enough that it could be heard down the corridor, "Francesca can sleep with whomever she likes, and I will _personally _provide her with all the contraceptive and protective amulets needed for her to have as much sex with as many partners as she wants!"

After that, Francesca put her foot down and promptly declined all dinner invitations unless reassured that they would be alone.

Alone, things were a little better. Aldon was solicitous, but it wasn't the same as what they had had when Francesca was across the ocean, talking by comm orb. He was too afraid of doing something wrong, struggling to balance what he wanted and what he believed was right with her own boundaries. On her good days, she found it all rather charming and sweet, especially the attention to detail and the flowers bearing notes that he sent to her if he was too busy to see her, but on her bad days she found it annoying and unnatural.

John wasn't happy about her new relationship, but there was little he could do about it from Geneva. She told him about the evening she had found Aldon drunk, and the morning after, and she learned more from his silence than from anything that he could have said. She didn't need access to John's mindscape, though it would have been nice for confirmation, to know that John had _known_ that alcohol was a problem for Aldon. That meant that Aldon did, indeed, have a history of doing exactly as he had done that night, and that it was serious enough that John had learned about it, though John rarely did deep dives in anyone's head.

But that did explain John's change in opinion about Aldon, quite aside from the Ministry Unity Ball disaster. At the beginning, it had been John to encourage her to talk to Aldon at all, but he had switched off weeks before the Unity Ball, when Francesca realized that she liked him. There were different standards, Francesca thought, for people who only wanted to befriend her and people who wanted to date her.

John was also less than happy to hear about the dhampir unit now stationed at Rosier Place. They weren't human, he insisted on telling her—as far as American mages went, John was exceptionally open-minded when it came to creatures and part-creatures, going far out of his way to try to acclimate Francesca to them, but even that apparently had its limits.

Half-vampires pushed those limits. John was nervous about them, which meant that Francesca, being generally scared of creatures, found the half-vampire unit completely terrifying.

They were beautiful—every single one of them was beautiful, too beautiful. It wasn't that they looked the same, because they did each look very different, but there was a clarity about each of them, a crisp sharpness that Francesca didn't know if she could describe if she tried. They came in every skin tone, from light-skinned to dark, but all of them looked as though acne would never dare to blemish their faces. They came in every shape, from tall and lithe to broad-shouldered and strong, but they all moved with grace. Not a dancer's grace, which was more delicate, but a solid, dangerous grace that Francesca found both attractive and terrifying.

John said it was one of their creature attributes. Vampires had a different version of it—they had a certain lure to them, which worked on Muggles and mages alike to draw their prey to them. Half-vampires inherited a softer, slightly more human version of it which was adapted for sunlight as well as darkness. Therefore, as handsome as they all were, it was a _predatory _beauty that Francesca found more terrifying than anything else. They were beautiful because they were hunters, and Francesca was the prey.

The captain of the half-vampire troop, who happened to be a mage as well as half a vampire, was no exception. Rather, Francesca thought he was handsome even for one of the dhampir, and therefore proportionately more terrifying.

Light brown curls fell over his forehead, and his blue eyes seemed almost feverish in their intensity. His nose was straight, unbroken, though Francesca had certainly seen him take a hit to the face in the training yard that should have broken it. He rarely took his wand out while sparring, though he resorted to runic magic from time to time—among his unit, he kept to his sword, knife, and gun, but when any of the Stormwings or Aldon himself stepped onto the field, he would pull his wand alongside his sword.

With his looks, one could almost forget the fangs that Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić had in his mouth. Francesca suspected that many people did forget, but she could not. Alex, as Aldon called him, was terrifying, and worst of all, he was stalking her.

It took her several days to stop second-guessing herself. She woke up in her own quarters every morning, stumbling out of her bed and getting dressed, but she would inevitably run into him either at breakfast or shortly thereafter. It seemed like he and Aldon went to the training yards early, and that around eight in the morning, when she was eating her fruit and yogurt, they would come in for their own breakfasts. After that, she would disappear to the library to work with the rest of Blake & Associates, but Alex would always appear in the library at some point before they finished for the day. The first two nights, she hadn't realized that he trailed her as she left, but the third night, she had paused in the hallway to talk to Christie about a point, and she had seen him pause coming out of the library.

After that, she paid closer attention. The captain of the dhampir guard didn't follow her absolutely everywhere—her rooms, for example, were generally safe—but she had no doubt that he was keeping tabs on her.

She raised it with Aldon, most of a week ago.

"Um, Aldon," she murmured while nibbling on her crème brulé, wondering how exactly she was going to broach the topic. "The dhampir unit—the captain. The—the one who was on your Triwizard Team."

"Alex?" Aldon looked over at her, his voice a gentle question. "What about him?"

"I think—I think he might be following me." She hesitated. "Not—not like, all the time, but um—he comes to the library every day before we finish work for the day, and I think he follows me out? And we always run into each other at, um, breakfast, and sometimes lunch, and if we aren't having dinner together, he's usually in the dining room when I'm there…"

Aldon frowned. "Alex was a Ravenclaw, so being in the library every day is hardly surprising," he replied slowly. "Ravenclaws do love knowledge, and Alex is no different. And the manor is not that large—Malfoy Manor and Parkinson Palace are larger—so it isn't surprising that you would run into each other often aside from that."

"I know, but this—I don't run into anyone else so often. Not unless they're with Blake & Associates." Francesca looked away. It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, that the captain of the dhampir guard was stalking her around the manor. And maybe it wasn't really stalking, because merely keeping track of her was a little different than actually following her—

No, she told herself sternly. Don't second-guess yourself.

"Aldon, I'm worried," she said instead, looking back up at him. "Can you just—maybe tell him that he's being creepy? I'd—I'd appreciate it."

Aldon sighed, but he reached over and gripped her hand. "Yes, if you're worried about it, of course I will. I'll mention it to him tomorrow morning at training."

Francesca didn't know whether Aldon spoke with the captain or not, but it didn't stop. Two days later, she was still convinced that he was tailing her, which was when she raised it with John over comm orb.

"I'm not entirely sure what to do," she said, rolling the comm orb over in her palms. "I told Aldon, and Aldon said he would talk to the captain about it, but nothing's changed."

"Aldon is a tool," John grumbled, and Francesca rolled her eyes. Among the names that John had called Aldon over the past year, _tool_ was relatively mild. "He didn't believe you, so maybe he didn't say anything at all."

"I think he would have, if only because I asked him to." Francesca chewed on her lower lip a bit. "I think that maybe the captain just didn't listen to him. Aldon—he thrashes Aldon in the training yard a lot, from what I've seen."

John's silence said more than his words did. They had argued enough over Aldon, and there was no need to rehash it yet again.

"Anyway," she continued, filling the pointed silence. "I don't know what more I can do."

"Set him on fire when you catch him following you." John's voice was entirely serious. "Vampires are sensitive to fire. Maybe half-vampires are sensitive too. Worth a shot, and you cast a mean fire rune. Call it self-defence. Whatever else I might think of Aldon, he'll back you up if it comes to you against anyone else."

Francesca glared at the orb. "I don't like it. I don't want to just, I don't know, set people on fire. Not without reason."

"Stalking you is a reason," John pointed out.

"I'll think about it," Francesca said finally. "Tell me about Gerry, and the ICW."

She didn't seriously think about setting the captain of the dhampir unit on fire. But he was terrifying; she had seen him pummel half his unit, thrash both of the Stormwing trainees, and trounce Aldon without breaking a sweat in a single morning. It couldn't hurt for her to take certain precautions. A few extra lightning spells, a few extra fire spells, charged and tucked under her bra strap were no extra effort for her, and they did make her feel a little safer.

But on Saturday, when Captain Dragić followed her from lunch into the third-floor blue parlour where she had planned on whiling the afternoon away in the cushioned window-seat over a copy of _The Duke and I_, it was too much. There was no reason for anyone to be trailing her for a lazy Saturday afternoon off, least of all the captain of the half-vampire guard. She had a fire-spell in hand, the single drop of magic she needed to complete the spell already soaking into the paper and fire launching towards the dhampir's face, before she could think.

His wand flashed out, and he batted her flames away like they were nothing. She had her second paper spell in hand already—lightning, this one. It cracked through the air, leaving the scent of ozone behind. The dhampir dodged, and her lightning left only a dark burn mark on the rug.

"Peace!" he snapped, the slight hiss hinting at the fangs he held in his mouth. Francesca had her shield spells out as well, four of them, and her book was dropped on the ground as her other hand flew up to trace another attack rune. "I only want to talk!"

Francesca glared at him suspiciously, though she dropped her hand—the one with the attack rune, not with the shield spells. "You—following me is not—"

The dhampir didn't deny it. Instead, he shut the door behind them and leaned against it. He didn't speak for a long moment, taking the time to look her over. When he spoke, his voice was only thoughtful. "Aldon cares deeply for you."

"That—" Francesca stuttered, gripping her shield spells tightly. She had seen the captain in the training yard. He was scary. He was fast, and he was strong, and even if he wasn't carrying his sword with him, his wand was still in hand. She struggled to find a response. "What—um, what of it?"

"Put your spells down," the dhampir said, glancing at them with contempt. "If I wanted to hurt you, they would do nothing. I only want to talk."

"But you were following me." Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled. "I wasn't—you were following me."

He snorted. "Yes, I was. I wanted to see what sort of person you were, that Aldon would care for you so deeply."

"Why didn't—couldn't you have asked him?" Francesca didn't lower her shield spells. They might be nothing, or maybe they'd buy enough time for her to launch herself out the window. "I hardly—why would I know?"

The dhampir shrugged, putting away his wand. He walked over to one of the chairs and sat down with a confident air that said very clearly that he did not consider Francesca, even with her dozen spells, to be any threat whatsoever. He was probably right. "Aldon, in case you didn't notice, is a fool. I doubt I would get anything other than lovesick fantasies. I also wanted to talk to you. Sit down, Francesca. You can call me Alex."

Francesca hesitated, looking between the door and the window. They were on the third floor, so no one would expect her to take the window as an exit path. As a dancer, of course, the height didn't frighten her. If she didn't use the air-hardening rune, she could probably fit a half-pike and a tuck before she had to roll into a crash-fall position.

"I can catch you before you make it to either the door or the window." The dhampir sighed heavily, evidently exasperated. "Please, just sit down."

It was the _please_ that did it more than anything else. She didn't doubt that Alex could likely beat her to both the window and the door, or that he would have much difficulty restraining her if it came to it. She had seen him often enough in the training yard, and she wasn't so stupid as to think that she could match anyone there. Slowly, she lowered her shield spells, quietly refuelled her fire and lightning spells, and tucked them back under her bra strap. She stooped to pick up her book before sitting in the chair as far away from the dhampir as she could manage.

They stared at each other for a few moments. Even with the time for her to examine him closely, Francesca couldn't spot a flaw in the symmetry of his face—his lips weren't too plump, his eyes were neither too narrow nor bulging. Even pores seem to be absent from the surface of his face. She found it terrifying.

"What do you know about Aldon?" Alex asked finally, turning laser-bright eyes on her. She fought a shudder.

"That—that's a very general question," she said, setting her book on the coffee table in front of her. "He likes magical theory and is interested in new magical technologies. And, um—I like his mannerisms. Sometimes. I—he is kind. To me, at least."

"To you." The dhampir smiled slightly, his mouth closed. "What do you know about his past?"

Francesca shrugged uncomfortably. "I know—he's was raised as a noble. A pureblood noble. And, um, that the culture he was raised in is a lot more conservative than mine, more like, um, my books than real life. That—Archie taught me a bit, but his family didn't hold with—with the old wizarding culture. And what Aldon told me, of course."

"I have no doubt that Aldon told you a highly selective version of his own history." Alex's smile widened, showing tiny fangs that made Francesca tense. "I swore an oath, Francesca. I'm not going to bite you."

Francesca shrugged slightly. "Not—not with your teeth."

The comeback suffered under her stutter, but Alex laughed anyway. "True enough. I've known Aldon since school, though we were not in the same House. He has struggled to come to where he is now. Did he mention the alcohol?"

Francesca looked away. "He didn't, but—" She cut herself off.

"But you learned of it anyway."

Francesca didn't look at him. Alex had to have known Cedric Diggory as well—they were all on the same Triwizard team, him and Aldon and Cedric, and if the Hogwarts team was as close as the AIM team, that meant that they had been close. And yet, Aldon had rarely mentioned Cedric, though they had been on the same side of the war and his death had affected him deeply enough for him to turn to the bottle.

"The Welsh massacre," was all she said. "He was upset."

"The Welsh, and Cedric, were a loss." Alex's voice was meditative. "Aldon got drunk."

It was a blunt statement, not a question, but Francesca nodded anyway in confirmation, still avoiding his eyes. She picked up her book for something to do, something to look at that wasn't the dhampir sitting across from her—a bright pink cover, curly white text announcing the title and the author's name, the faded image of a horse and carriage in front of a stately manor that, if she had to confess, didn't look that different than Rosier Place. But Aldon wasn't a duke, nor was he quite as much of a coward as Simon Basset.

"Aldon used to drink a lot," Alex said, still calm and meditative. "According to Edmund Rookwood, who was Aldon's closest friend in childhood—"

"I know who Ed is."

Alex continued as if Francesca hadn't spoken at all. "Aldon was not raised to show emotion. He used alcohol to cope."

Past tense, Francesca noted, which wasn't surprising. She was sure that if Aldon was currently a raging alcoholic, John would have said something, and even Neal would have interceded. Neal was nowhere near as interfering as John, but that didn't mean he wouldn't say something if he thought he had to. The difference between John and Neal was that Neal would _just_ say something—John would also _do_ something, if words didn't work.

"And?" she asked, looking up at him, her voice trembling. "It's in—we all have pasts."

"He's just replaced alcohol with you." Alex smiled slightly. "Congratulations."

Francesca pressed her lips together tightly. "How is that my responsibility? I just—I like him. He's a lot like me. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do."

"It's not," Alex replied, waving a hand. "But I don't care about that."

"Then, um." Francesca took a deep breath. "Then why are you here?"

Alex didn't respond for a minute, studying her. When he spoke, it seemed like a complete non-sequitur. "The dhampir are known for having many short relationships. We don't practice monogamy, though serial monogamy would be more accurate. We are not selective about our partners, and most of us have children by multiple people. We have a reputation for being sexually promiscuous, and for leaving."

"I know." John had also regaled her at length about this aspect of the dhampir. It was one of the few things known about them.

He gave her a fanged half-smile. "That is because the dhampir know the power of love. It makes us irrational, more likely to disobey command in the interests of our lovers and our children, less able to act as a collective. But we also have legends of the things that we have done for love—incredible things. Killed vampire lords, wiped out vampire armies."

"And—and why are you telling me this?" Francesca demanded, her hand fluttering in a weak gesture. "I don't—"

"If you're here, Aldon makes different choices." The smile disappeared, replaced with a serious look. "If you're here, Aldon stays up an extra fifteen minutes to check the wards to make sure that you're safe. If you're here, Aldon goes to training every morning and doesn't complain nearly half as much about it. If you're here, Aldon doesn't reach for a drink when he's stressed or upset."

"That—that isn't—" Francesca shut her mouth, taking a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this? Is this—are you trying to _guilt_ me? What Aldon does—his actions are not my responsibility. He should do all of those things without me involved."

"He should," Alex agreed placidly, nodding. "But he doesn't. Francesca, I have few people I can call friends, and Aldon is one of them. I want him to survive this war, and he has a better chance of doing it if he believes he has a future with you."

"So—so what do you want me to do, then?" Francesca looked down at her book, her thumb stroking the pink cover. "I don't—what are you getting at? Do you want me to _lie _to him? That—that's impossible. He's a _Truth-Speaker_."

"Not impossible, just difficult," Alex replied with a shrug. "He can be misled, usually by playing on his assumptions. You would have an easier time of it than most—he will see what he wants to see. But you said yourself that you like him. Is giving him hope for the future so difficult? Unless this is only a temporary fling for you."

Francesca's fingers froze on her cover, and she looked up at the dhampir with a glare. "I just—" She took another deep breath, struggling to find her words. "The war doesn't rest on me. The war _shouldn't_ rest on me."

"Do you want him to survive?" Alex raised one eyebrow. "He'll kill himself in this war, if you let him. He will quite happily burn himself to ashes in his own revolution, unless he has something he can hope for afterwards."

She scowled.

This responsibility shouldn't rest on her. But as little as Aldon told her about it, Francesca knew well enough that Aldon was the spymaster for the revolution, as well as the Lord Rosier and the master of Rosier Place. Without him, the war would be very different, and she didn't think it would be a very good difference. Whatever else, Francesca did believe that he was good at what he did.

And Aldon wasn't a fling for her. Francesca was not the sort of person to have flings—she tried her best in any relationship she was in. She liked Aldon, and while she wasn't on the same high-speed rail that he was on that inevitably ended in marriage, two point five children and a fully staffed mansion, she could maybe see that as one possible end result. Maybe.

They were too young. They were both too young, and a breakup was, realistically, a more likely result. But she wasn't planning on breaking up with him, not now, and she probably wouldn't during the war. She couldn't see herself doing that during the war, not when Aldon had so much else on his plate.

Was it so much for her to give him hope for a future afterwards? She didn't have to make him any promises. Alex wasn't asking her for anything specific. She could draw the boundary lines on her own, and she didn't have to lie to Aldon if she didn't want to lie to him. She could just say nothing of her own doubts and let things happen as they did. Aldon wasn't cruel. Aldon was kind to her, and he sent her flowers and notes with sweet nothings on them and they had dinner and took walks on his grounds and talked about magical theory. She liked him, a lot. She didn't want to break up with him, or at least not right now.

And whatever else had happened or might happen, she did want Aldon to survive the war.

"Fine," she said, picking up her book and turning to the page she had left off on. A scene of Simon Basset's cowardice, and a duel with the Viscount Bridgerton over Daphne's honour. "I don't suppose—suppose you'd be willing to sneak me out to London, would you? I'll—I'll have to buy him a Christmas present. I just—I know he'll have something for me."

"Done." She heard a rustle, and saw Alex rising from his seat across from her, a tiny smile back on his face. "Enjoy your book."

XXX

_ANs: Hey, look, it's the reason why the Aldon/Chess romance even exists! At the end of LL, I realized I had been so successful in radicalizing Aldon that he was quite literally the kind of person who would go suicide bomb the Wizengamot to make a political statement (likely shortly after his disownment, when he had very little else), so then I had to invent other characters to keep him in check. Extremism, your name is Aldon. _

_Which I suppose is a good time to make a few other general notes, which I would normally leave to the end of a fic. A couple people noted that Aldon/Archie/Saoirse/etc have taken more prominence over James/Dumbledore/etc in the war. That's true! It's because Aldon and Archie both had radicalization narratives in LL and FAWL. People don't just pick up a weapon and decide to go fight a war. At the beginning of Cataclysm, Aldon was already mentally prepared to burn down the world around him, Archie had already been arrested and stood trial and was ready to organize protest marches down Diagon Alley, while the Light faction was still mentally catching up to a reality that included a full-blown war. For some people, the question was "But is Voldemort really that bad?" How bad does the world have to get for people to take up arms against the state? _

_That said, Draco is coming along nicely. A few people have commented that Draco is slower than everyone else to get with the program, but Draco is the one character who only saw the good in the old world. He had status, and power, and his father was not just politically powerful but doted on him and his family. He never had a reason to look behind the pureblood and noble ediface, and one example like Harry is really only enough for him to say, "but she's special." Because Harry is special. She's super powerful, extremely smart and driven and hard-working. She's not like Aldon, or Hermione, or Chess, or anyone else. It takes meeting more halfbloods and Muggleborns for him to start prodding at the base of his beliefs (which he started getting only after the war started), and in this chapter he finally gets to the crux of why he can't let go (even if he doesn't realize it). Let's push him a little harder in a few more chapters._

_Thanks always to meek_bookworm, best beta-reader ever, plus all of you who are still reading. Leave me and comment or review, and I'll try to have the next chapter out on time!_


	10. Chapter 10

"I hate it," Archie declared, for what had to be the tenth time. Leo watched him pacing on the other side of the table, which was littered with iterations of the article that they had been struggling to put together for a week and a half. Archie had hated every rendition of it since Harry had gotten her hands onto the piece. "I mean, listen to this: _The past six months have been a trial. These words, I think, must be the understatement of the century. _A _trial?_ Really? This is a person who is risking his life, risking _everything_, to get a warning out in the _Daily Prophet_, and he's calling it a _trial?_ No, he's going to be like _Voldemort is an insane dictator and is going to kill us all_, _don't join him he's crazy and awful _with eighteen exclamation points in all capitals!"

"No, he isn't," Harry replied, sounding exhausted and annoyed, and Leo went over to rub her shoulders. He might not have anything to add—he rarely had much to add, these days—but he could still provide some small comfort. "Being hyperbolic isn't going to help. The people reading this article are going to be the people who waited after Voldemort's coup and who stood by after the Lower Alleys were burned."

Leo's hands twitched, and Harry glanced at him with a small, sympathetic smile before looking back at Archie and continuing. "We're reaching out to people who were at least comfortable with the old world. To some degree, they trusted Riddle, and they trusted the authorities that he supported, including the _Daily Prophet_ and the Ministry of Magic. They want to believe that Voldemort is like Riddle, or at least that he follows the same general rules as Riddle did, and that Voldemort will keep their lives more or less the same. Being hyperbolic just reminds them of _Bridge_, and the hypothetical writer, the writer we need to be so that they read to the end of the article, has probably either never read _Bridge_ or doesn't think much of it."

"I hate it," Archie bemoaned again, miming a dramatic swoon. "_Do not make the same mistake as we did? _This is the most awful article known to mankind."

Harry rolled her eyes at her cousin, crossing her arms over her chest, but she didn't reply. There was a crinkle of paper as Rosier, sitting with one leg propped over the other on the other side of the table, put down the finalized version.

"Harry is correct," Rosier said, sliding the article back across the table towards Harry. "This version is better than your other versions, if not particularly well-drafted. Being well-written would, however, make it look all the more like a hoax, so in some ways I think it's better this way. It does not threaten any of my sources."

"Should we be adding anything else?" Harry asked, looking over her work with a critical frown. "Without many specific details or incidents, it looks unrealistic and suspicious. We just have the two, and both of those were well-publicized already. It doesn't create any further impact."

Rosier shook his head regretfully. "Ideally, we would have a few more specific incidents, but the risk is that we would invent something that never actually happened, and which would then be easily disproven. Aside from that, however, I don't think someone within Voldemort's ranks would actually refer to too many other specific incidents—if he refers to them, Voldemort will know that he was there, and I fully expect heads to roll once this appears. He will want to provide enough detail that his account is believable, but not so many that he will be caught."

Harry sighed, setting the sheet of paper back down. "Do we need to include the part about Pansy?" There was a slight pause, then Harry cleared her throat, tapping one finger beside the paragraph that outlined her friend's role and her actions. It was not a sympathetic picture. "Pansy isn't—she's not like this."

"She only cast an Anti-Coagulation Hex at Dad," Archie muttered under his breath, ignoring the glare that Harry threw at him. "She only leads a group of Voldemort's most dedicated followers."

"The Imperius Curse—"

"The Imperius Curse prevents people from casting complex spells, and you know it, Harry." Archie blew out a breath, annoyed. They had had this argument before, at least six times while writing the piece. "The Anti-Coagulation Hex requires more focused intent than the Imperius Curse allows. Your friend might have first joined Voldemort's side to save Draco and her family, but let's face it, Harry, the Pansy standing across from us now is not the person you knew. She's a _leader _among them. She needs to be included for any sort of realism whatsoever."

"The effects of long-term torture should not be underestimated," Rosier added quietly, his face grim. "Whatever she once was, I think it best if we both put that out of mind, Harry. It can't help her now, and refusing to face it will make us both less effective at our duties. And Archie is correct, we cannot exclude her—her role too prominent within Voldemort's ranks. It would be like excluding Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry smoothed out non-existent wrinkle on her sheet, her expression troubled. "Yes, you're right, you're both right. I'd just—I'd like to protect her as much as I can."

"Protect your memory of her instead," Rosier suggested awkwardly, looking back at the table covered in scraps of paper. "I am satisfied with the article. When do you expect to be able to run it?"

"But it's so _stuffy_," Archie complained again, still pacing on the other side of the table. "I don't think it's very effective—the language is so _stiff_, so overly formal. It doesn't even sound real. It's not—not _panicked_ enough, it doesn't have the right energy for this kind of warning. I mean, listen to this: _The world outside of Britain cannot be worse than the monster that has taken control of our state. The Light faction, for all they have allied with anti-aristocratic revolutionaries, lesser-bloods, and foreigners, cannot be worse. _He's risking his life to sneak this in the _Daily Prophet!_ Would he really be this formal?"

There was a slight pause, then Rosier frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand your point."

"Things are just more formal here, Archie," Harry said, with a slight grimace. "I mean, even among friends at Hogwarts, people tended to be circumspect about certain things, and not just in Slytherin. An article like this, written for strangers, has to be formal—it just doesn't sound right otherwise. It doesn't sound like it was written by a pureblood who was raised here, especially not one raised with SOW Party views, if we're any more casual."

"Harry is correct," Rosier confirmed, and Archie blew out another annoyed breath. He had been raising this point ad nauseum, and Leo wondered whether the dozenth confirmation would be any more convincing to him than that previous eleven. Rosier looked towards Harry. "Again, when do you expect to be able to put it into the _Daily Prophet?_"

Harry glanced over her shoulder at Leo, worry and a question in her green eyes.

"Tonight, if I can contact Abbott. If not, tomorrow night." Leo sorted through the drafts strewn across the table to find the notes given to them by Abbott, their inside source. "Tomorrow is probably more likely."

Leo's part in this escapade was to plan the actual entry and exit into the Daily Prophet, a task that fortunately required little effort from him. He had struck harder, more tightly defended targets before, ones that didn't have a friendly ally on the inside. Abbott would be pretend to leave work, but instead hide in his shifted form to let them in, guide them through the printing press, and get them out. Harry and Leo were needed to help wipe the scene of all traces of the three of them.

It was a good thing that it was not a difficult strike to plan. They said that time healed all things, but four scant months were nothing to the loss of the Alleys. The pain wasn't so sharp anymore, but it was still there.

Or, maybe, the pain was only different. The first months, the loss of the Alleys had been a twisting, painful fire so much like the one that had torched his Alleys. The burning pain had dimmed only when Leo was in movement, when he was looking after his survivors and seeing them all off to safer places. He had had very little time of his own to grieve, not that he ever wanted to stop to grieve. He had hurt too much any moment he had stopped moving.

A little over four months later, his pain was emptiness. There was no more fire, there was no more pain, but there was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be that he always, always felt. It was worse than the pain, because there were moments, tiny instants when he first woke up, or just before he fell asleep, or when he wasn't thinking, when he would forget. The loss of the Alleys, in these moments, felt like a bad dream. He would rise from his bed, humming, ready to face the day, and then he would remember.

His Alleys were gone, as were his people. Rispah was dead, as was most of his Court of the Rogue. What remained, of the Lower Alleys that he had sealed off, was nothing more than a ruined husk. There were not even the bodies left, as the Fiendfyre had consumed them.

And then his mood would crack, draining away into nothingness, and he would be left empty.

"Tomorrow is better," Rosier said, and Leo pulled his attention back to the conversation. "I can send word so my informants will be prepared to deal with the fallout."

It did take until the next day for Leo to finalize the plans. Abbott would pretend to leave at the end of the day, but would stay in his shifted form after curfew and would let him and Harry into the building. Abbott knew how the printing press worked, and he would show them how to use it. Leo and Harry were there to wipe the scene as much as possible, since everyone working at the Daily Prophet would likely be questioned in some form or another once the article came out. Abbott didn't have the knowledge or experience to stage a clean break-in, and he would go home and be Obliviated by his daughter for his own safety.

When he and Harry arrived under her Invisibility Cloak, Diagon Alley was empty. Stepping down the streets, Leo almost felt that he had crossed into another world. Diagon Alley had always been bright and alive—the shopfronts painted in dark greens and blues with sparks of gold that flashed under the glow of the night-time lanterns that the shopkeepers had always put out. The light would pool on the grounds, giving a warmth to Diagon Alley that couldn't be extinguished, and there were always people on the streets. Diagon Alley was once the busiest street in all of Wizarding Britain, and to see it bare, unlit, subdued to a shade of its former self, was shocking.

The night was wet, a good thing for their escapade. The rain would make any witnesses doubt what they had seen, would wash away their scent, and would pose problems for tracking spells, though he and Harry had taken a dozen precautions for that express purpose. The appearance of the article itself would be evidence enough of a break-in at the _Daily Prophet_, and there could be absolutely nothing that could allow either him or Harry to be tracked. They could not leave any sign that would conflict with the premise that the article had come from within Voldemort's camp.

The rain darkened the streets of Diagon Alley. Without the lanterns, the shopfronts were black, the windows nothing more than an icy sheen in the night. The cobblestones were cold and grey, water running in rivulets between the slick stones. He caught Harry's arm once, when she slipped, but they didn't bother with an Umbrella Charm or anything other than their cloaks to shield themselves. It would be better for the escapade if they were soaked through, if they smelled like nothing but the wet of the rain outside.

The cold rain permeated everything, though there was nothing that tried to cut through it. Before, even in the heaviest of storms, Leo could expect to hear something—sounds of complaint from within storefronts, gasps of surprise and awe from restaurants and pubs at the rain. It was miserable, and Leo thought that was fitting.

They moved quickly down the streets. The Invisibility Cloak did not make them insubstantial, and if anyone looked too closely, they would have seen a misshapen non-figure in the night, outlined not by presence but by absence. The water dripped off them, soaking Harry's Cloak. Leo had no idea if being wet would affect the Cloak's magic, but if it did, Harry didn't mention it.

The _Daily Prophet_ was located in a huge, six-storey building situated just off the main lane. The building was made of smooth, once-white stone, tightly interlocked together and free of any moss or ivy. The gaps between each block was minimal, not enough for him to find any foothold. Dark streaks marred the façade of the building, stretching upwards from half of the lower-storey windows, a lingering reminder of the fire that had taken the newspaper out of commission for four months of the last year.

Huge, script letters reading _The Daily Prophet_ hung over the front of the building, each one the size of a person and made of a tarnished gold. Once, there was a charm on the words that would have them march around the building and flash, but it hadn't been renewed since the fire, so the letters only sparked and wobbled.

They drew close to the building and inched their way to the side. There were several entrances, but Abbott would let them in through the side, where they were less likely to be seen. Indeed, when Leo spotted the door, he saw that Abbott had left it just barely ajar. Leo tugged it open and they entered, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak when the door shut after them. Harry had her wand out already, checking the hallway for Monitoring and Alarm Charms.

The hallway was narrow, bland, and smelled of paper and ink. Leo looked both ways, searching for Abbott. Neither he nor Harry knew how the _Daily Prophet's _printing press worked, nor did they want to waste time figuring it out. The morning paper for the next day was running already, to be ready for delivery by dawn, and the quicker they moved to add their article, the more copies of the _Daily Prophet_ it would be in. There was no way it would be in every copy—indeed, it looked far more realistic and alarming if it wasn't—but they did want it to be in as many copies as possible.

There was a flash of movement at one end of the hallway, and Leo looked over to see Abbott motioning for them to follow him.

"This way," he said, keeping his words brief. Abbott was a small man, brown-haired and non-descript, but his nose twitched every few seconds in nervousness. "Quickly. We have to turn the article you drafted into the copy that would be put into the Daily Prophet, and then the printing press is underground. I deactivated all the Monitoring Charms I could find—one of my people tonight will wipe my wand, while my daughter wipes my memory."

Harry nodded, but she ran a check anyway. "There's no harm in being too careful," she replied. "This will be a complex thing to remove from your memory, both the planning and the events of tonight."

Her unspoken concern hung in the air, and Abbott's lips flickered into a small smile. "My daughter is very good at Memory Charms. She will also embed a false memory consistent with my alibi for me. Come, the run for tomorrow morning started only a few hours ago. If we move quickly, it should be included in most of tomorrow's print run."

Leo nodded, taking out his own wand to clean the hallway after them. While Harry took care of the scrying charms to identify any Monitoring or Alarm Charms, he wiped the hallways of any signs of their presence. Puddles of water and mud disappeared, papers rearranged themselves back to the positions they had been in before they arrived. He didn't touch anything, keeping his essence from anything in the building.

It would only take one mistake to derail their plans.

The _Daily Prophet_ offices were a maze of rooms, desks, and corridors. Without Abbott, he and Harry would have been completely lost. Harry was casting the spells needed to wipe or confuse their presence as much as possible. Abbott was silent, though his nose twitched every so often and he looked around at every unexpected creak. The smell of the rain, fortunately, permeated the building—it seemed that several people had left their windows open a crack, no doubt to escape heat of the crowded editing rooms and the ink-smell of the building.

Abbott paused in front of a door, a dark look crossing his face, and motioned for Harry to break the lock. "One of the senior editors—they're less likely to question him."

Harry nodded, and the door gave way to a _Resigno_ spell. She pulled out a cloth, soaked in a solution to eliminate their essence, and popped open the door.

The office was an inside one, without a window, pitch-dark. Leo cast a _Lumos_ charm, revealing a small, cluttered room, dominated by an oversized desk scattered with pieces of parchment. Abbott made a move to sit in the grand, high-backed chair behind the desk, but Harry shook her head. "Better not," she muttered. "Essence. As little contact as possible, please."

Abbott nodded, instead leaning over the typewriter. "The article?"

Leo passed it over without comment, and Abbott set it in the stand beside the typewriter and got to work. The noise of the keys seemed too loud, and Leo quickly cast a noise dampening charm even if he doubted that the noise could be heard from anywhere outside the building. Wordlessly, he went to stand by the door to keep watch, for guards, Dementors, or even just the reactivation of Monitoring Charms.

With the curfews, he doubted that anyone would be out. They were good for one thing, the curfews, and Dementors were unlikely to enter an office building. Still, the _Daily Prophet _was formally exempt from the curfew restrictions, since the machine that distributed news to the populace was considered essential to society. There was still a risk that an editor or machinist or journalist was there, though with the Dementors on patrol, Leo doubted that many would be using the curfew exception. The Dementors, Leo suspected, wouldn't be listening to any explanations if they caught someone on the streets.

It took Abbott a half-hour to type the article onto the heavy newsprint that the _Daily Prophet_ used, a tense half an hour during which Leo stood at the door, casting passive scrying spells while Harry read over Abbott's shoulder. He finished, pulling the sheet off the top, and hurriedly got out of the way while Harry lit their original copy on fire and rubbed off the typewriter and the stand with her potion-soaked cloth.

"Did you touch anything else in the room?" She demanded at the end, looking around. Abbott hesitated, his nose twitching, then nodded at the edges of the desk.

"I might have rested a hand there—I don't remember," he confessed, and Harry silently rubbed the section of the desk off with her cloth.

"Anything else?"

Abbott shook his head, looking worried, but Leo didn't remember him touching anything. Neither he nor Harry would have touched anything, though their essences wouldn't be as easy to identify. He could give Abbott some additional assurances, though; it would be a long night, and people who were nervous tended to make mistakes. "I have a spell for a general wipe of the room—it isn't targeted enough for many things, but it should blunt or confuse anything left."

Harry nodded, motioned for Abbott to leave, and followed him out. It was the work of a moment for Leo to cast the wiping spell, a useful one at Rogue break-ins to stymie the Aurors. It wasn't perfect, and Harry's potion was better for magical essence, but it would at least clean the scene of the highest-level magical traces. He shut the door behind him, locking it, and let Harry wipe the doorknob with her cloth once again.

The basement was one huge, cavernous room, dominated by a huge assembly of knobs, dials, gears, and clattering type: the printing press. The morning paper was already running off the machine, making an enormous clatter that drowned out even the rain. The room smelled of paper and ink and magic, and the spells that made the pictures move threw up an unearthly purple glow.

Abbott skirted the press, leading them around the edges of the room to a huge, long desk. The next day's paper was laid out on the table under spells, and Abbott drew his wand, casting a series of spells to unlock it. He reached in, pulling out a page seemingly at whim, and slipped in the replacement. He glanced at the page he had pulled out, then shrugged and lit it aflame, letting it burn to nothing.

"Foreign affairs—not important, and mostly a lie anyway," he muttered, leaving the spells unlocked behind him. It looked better that way, more like a third-party had broken in and gotten into the press rather than anyone within the organization. Any employee of the Daily Prophet would have re-sealed the spells without thinking about it. "It's done. What time is it?"

"Half midnight," Harry supplied, pulling out her cloth again to wipe the table. "How many papers will it be in tomorrow?"

"At this hour? A little under two thirds, I should think," Abbott replied, with a twitch of his nose.

"That's enough," Leo said, his voice rough. "If we are done, we're done. Let's clear the scene of any extraneous magical traces and get out of here."

Outside, it was still raining—lighter than before, but still a heavy downpour to shield their presence. Abbott shifted forms and he was gone with barely a goodbye, leaving Harry and Leo back under her soon-to-be-soaked Invisibility Cloak.

He was probably going to be sick, after tonight—his lungs had never really recovered from the effects of the Fiendfyre, and the cold and damp dragged at him in ways that they never had before. And yet, if they pulled it off, it would be worth it. It would be worth it a dozen times over, because even if Leo could never bring back his Alleys, he could at least do his best to see that Voldemort would not profit from long from their destruction.

XXX

Archie felt good, heading downstairs to go to Rosier Place for the general meeting. It wasn't that, objectively speaking, things were any better. Nothing would bring back Cedric, or Mr. Weasley, or anyone who had died in Wales or the Lower Alleys. Martial law still ruled Wizarding Britain. Archie was still in the top five Most Wanted, company that he was honoured to share with Uncle James, Aldon, Lina, and Harry herself. Most of the population was still demoralized and cowed, but Archie felt like things might be finally starting to turn in their favour.

Harry and Leo had made it back. Leo had caught a cold and had been laid up at Potter Place for the last few days, but they had made it back, and their article was in the _Daily Prophet_ the very next morning. Dad had checked in with the shifters, and while Abbott remembered nothing and was utterly convinced he had spent the night at home with his family, Zabini had quietly let them know that even if everyone at the _Daily Prophet_ was being questioned, Abbott was generally seen as being both too low-level and too timid to make the suspect list. He had been questioned, but only once, and his alibi had held.

Archie checked his messenger bag to make sure that he had his notes. It was the last major alliance meeting for the year. While they often had meetings with one or two or even three of the other leaders, they rarely met as one group. Archie, for example, often met with Aldon, with Dad, and with Hermione, but he almost never heard anything from Uncle James, Lina, or Uncle Remus, all of whom were on the military side. Similarly, Hermione met a lot with Archie and Dad, the Scots and even Lady Malfoy, but she didn't need to meet often with Aldon. The big meetings, held monthly, were how they kept track of everything else that their growing organization was doing.

"Ready to go, Arch?" Dad asked, waiting outside the Portkey Hub with his own notes in hand.

"You bet." Archie grinned. Maybe it was the coming holidays, too—it was hard to feel miserable when the air was growing crisp, the decorations were staring to drape the house, and the tree had already gone up. Things hadn't changed _that_ much, but Harry and Leo had gotten a breakthrough article into the _Daily Prophet_, and no one had died for it, and it would soon be Christmas. How could anyone not feel their spirits lifting?

They weren't the last ones at Rosier Place, chosen only because Aldon was the only one who kept his formal dining room open and prepared for meetings. Potter Place was larger, but while Aunt Lily and Uncle James had opened most of the manor for their two units and other guests and refugees, they didn't have a large formal dining room as the Rosiers did. The Potters, like most of the older families, had had a Great Hall, though theirs was demolished sometime in the nineteenth century in favour of newer designs that did _not _include a huge, formal dining room.

Hermione was already there, having Portkeyed in separately from a meeting in Scotland, and she was checking through her notes. Archie took a seat beside her, pulling out his own notes and looking around.

Aldon was sitting across from him, watching the rest of the room with a slightly wary air. Chess was beside him, her communication orb in front of her linking them to both John and Gerhardt, their liaisons with MACUSA and Wizarding Germany. She was sitting maybe three inches closer to him than necessary, just enough to throw off the spacing between the chairs, and if Archie didn't already know that they were together from the disastrous chaperoning incidents a few weeks ago, those three inches would have said all he needed to know.

She caught his gaze, blushed slightly and looked away. Archie smothered a laugh.

It took a moment for Archie to place the person lounging in the chair on her other side, Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, and now that he knew what to look for, he didn't know how he could ever have missed his part-human status. All the dhampir had a sort of look to them—it wasn't as if they looked the same, because their appearances differed as much as wizards' did, but they had an edge to them that Archie saw but couldn't quite describe. It was something sharp, setting off the alarms in his subconscious, and if he turned his head just slightly he sometimes thought he could see a glimmer around them. Confirming his guess, Aldon leaned over Chess to say something to him, and the young man showed a tiny, sharp fang as he smirked.

Lina was sitting across the table, talking to Alastor Moody, with Uncle James listening. Harry was on Uncle James' other side, chatting to Uncle Remus. The rest of the table was dotted with various other leaders or contacts, many of whom Archie had never had anything to do with after the initial treaty negotiations. Mei Ling Song was there, representing Queenscove because Neal downright refused to attend political meetings unless he had to, Tonks was there on behalf of Scotland Yard, Hannah Abbott and Blaise Zabini were there for the shifters, and with them were a smattering of the former Light faction Lords and Clan emissaries.

Aldon had a full complement of elves staffing his manor, another reason why it was convenient for him to host, and the table was piled high with snacks. Strangely, both ends of the table were both bare and had no chairs set out; considering it was Aldon, Archie suspected that the layout was an intentional move to prevent anyone from sitting at the head of the table and even subtly implying that they were in charge of the alliance. With no chairs and the food in the middle of the table, people would congregate towards the centre.

"No Dumbledore?" Dad asked, directing the question across the table at Aldon.

"He sent his regrets—he could not get away from the school," Aldon replied, looking up and around the table. "I do think everyone who will be attending is here, however. Archie, would you call everyone to order?"

"Sure." Archie stood, looking down the rest of the table and clapping his hands twice to get the attention of the room. "Hello, everyone! Thank you all for coming—everyone is here, so should we get started? Harry, you and Leo handled the last strike, so could you give everyone an update?"

Harry nodded, standing up, as the people around the table rustled and turned to her. "There's not much to say. You all saw the results in the _Daily Prophet. _It was an uneventful strike—we were not tracked. We were fortunate, in that the weather for that night was cooperative."

"The result was very promising." Unlike Archie and Harry, Aldon didn't bother to stand to give his report. "While the _Daily Prophet_ published a retraction and news of the break-in the next day, they failed to identify any of our informants within the organization. Everyone working at the _Prophet_ has been questioned at least once, but attention is focusing on one of the senior editors, whose office showed signs of tampering. He has been taken in for further questioning. New safety protocols are also being introduced at the office. Voldemort is upset with the breach—Travers is being assigned to manage the _Prophet, _much as McNabb is currently in charge of the Ministry of Magic.

"Within Voldemort's organization, my reports indicate that he is deeply upset. He is convinced that the editorial did come from within his ranks, and the Lestranges were tasked with finding the culprit. He has focused, logically, on the families which came to him after the Welsh massacre. The Greengrasses and Ogdens have been singled out as the most likely leaks. Voldemort's recruitment has also slowed significantly. Although the article did not make it into every paper, it seems that it was widespread enough to travel by word of mouth otherwise."

Aldon paused, his eyes flicking towards the rest of the table. "If no one objects, I may as well complete my update."

There was a slight murmur around the table, but no one objected.

"I continue to have persons coming forward offering to act as informants, but few are of note. My assistant is also beginning to cultivate a few of his personal connections, whom we hope to turn into more valuable informants at a later time. On the counter-intelligence front, we did identify five spies among the newest recruits, who were summarily rejected, and I have finally completed interviewing everyone within our organization. I identified three further informants for Voldemort, one of whom was in the military branch and two of whom were among the Light faction families. None of them were, fortunately, in any senior positions."

Archie held his breath, waiting for a snarky comment or a glare at any of the former Light faction, but Aldon simply pretended they didn't exist. "In all cases, the chain of command has been notified, but I advise against moving them. It is better to allow Voldemort to believe he has informants, and these three have been in place for some months. As long as we can control the information available to them, they should not prove dangerous to us, and they may be useful if we ever need to feed false intelligence back to Voldemort."

"Aldon, I remain concerned about the risks of leaving them where they are," Uncle James spoke up. "I can control the placement of the informant within the military branch, the other two…"

"Their Lords have been informed, and I will leave it to those Lords to handle their family members. They know the stakes, being, most likely, the loss of their own ancestral manors." Aldon's words were cold, and his expression was equally stern. "As you know yourself, James, we are thinly spread—it is the responsibility of each safehouse to be aware of their own risks. I will not hesitate to recommend that no backup be provided to those Houses that refused to mitigate their own risks, including by refusing to appropriately manage the informant in their ranks."

There was a hard silence, when Aldon's eyes finally flickered across the Light faction Lords, but no one reacted.

After an awkward moment, Uncle James cleared his throat. "We've made some progress on the military front. With recruitment, we're finally looking at having a fighting force equal to what we had in the summer. Unfortunately, Voldemort's active fighting force has also increased, and we have a dozen safehouses to defend while he only has Malfoy Manor and the Ministry of Magic itself."

"Still, we have enough by numbers that we can feasibly begin looking towards active counter-strikes, larger targets to hammer home the idea that joining Voldemort is not safe, and to show that Voldemort isn't an overwhelming, invincible force." Lina added, leaning forward with almost a lazy gesture. "With the assistance of the Scots, that is."

"Our position remains the same," Quinn said, Toby beside her. They were the emissaries for five of the eight clans only, since Laird MacMillan was attending on behalf of the three noble Clans. "Scottish Clan forces will be concentrated primarily in Scotland, and I doubt our Lairds would be willing to send out more than a quarter of our forces to assist in a strike outside of Scotland. I should also note that, with the success of Irish independence, many of us see no reason why we should not be striking for our own independence now rather than on the promise of later."

"Despite your _land border?_" Lina quipped. "Cameron, your forces never had the numbers of the Irish. The Irish had a much higher proportion of combatants to non-combatants, and they had the benefit of widespread internal support and _geography_. All they had to do was take the Ministry outposts and expel the Ministry elite, people who were easily identified because they had status, they had to gone to Hogwarts, and they had the good jobs. And half of the Irish forces were undocumented, so they had surprise on their side, not to mention that they were the _first_ such declaration of independence. Are you insane?"

"Is that even a question?" Toby shot everyone around the table a daring grin. "Aren't we all a little insane, to be fighting a war instead of running for it? We'll be discussing this more at the next Clanmeet—if you have any proposed strikes, we can present and discuss them there for additional support arrangements."

"Which would be…" Lina said, looking as if she were fighting her instinct to roll her eyes. "Next summer?"

"February." Cameron shot her a glare. "They're quarterly."

"Fine." Lina looked around to the rest of the table. "I suggest we concentrate on targets that may be agreed upon by the Scots. At this time, while we have the numbers, I do not recommend another assault on either Malfoy Manor or the Ministry of Magic. Voldemort's forces are concentrated on those two locations, and even with our success with the newspaper, the morale of Voldemort's forces is still high after Wales. We need to develop a pattern of small-scale wins, and we need to bleed the enemy as much as we can. James, Alastor and I will work with the Scots on a potential target list that we can both agree on."

"Fine by us," Quinn replied, her words echoed by the nods of both Toby and the Laird MacMillan.

"Will there be vampire involvement?" The dhampir sitting beside Chess was lounging in his seat. "The Stormwings will already know this, but my unit's primary purpose here is to handle the vampire threat. We won't participate in a strike unless there is vampire involvement, though we will defend ourselves if attacked."

"I'm confident that we can find a target of interest to both you and the Scots," Lina said dismissively, waving her hand. "Did I miss anything, Alastor? James?"

"No, that's everything," Uncle James agreed, then he glanced at Uncle Remus. "Remus, from training?"

"I expect to have another two units trained and ready for orders by the end of January." Uncle Remus looked exhausted—the full moon was fast approaching, and while he had a steady supply of Wolfsbane, the potion was not a complete panacea. "One more in February. We do have a good number of new recruits though, so James, I'd appreciate any spare Aurors you have for training purposes."

"The holidays are coming," Uncle James replied with a slight wince. "I don't think anyone else would be willing to volunteer until January, at least…"

"I don't think the recruits will be ready to start training before January anyway." Uncle Remus shook his head. "Many of them are still putting their affairs in order and sending their families abroad. January will be fine. If all our new recruits stay, we are looking at the equivalent of three more units."

"This might be a good time to raise the refugee issue and to discuss international aid," Hermione broke in, picking up her pad of paper. "The European nations have been reporting a huge increase in refugees. As much as we try to convince them to come forward to us, they aren't, and they're finding more ways to head for the Continent themselves."

"One group was arrested by Voldemort's forces." Aldon tilted his head, his expression inscrutable. "Their boat floundered. They're being held for trial—treason, subversion of state power, sedition, the usual slate of charges."

Hermione shook her head. "More were successful. The Ministère de Magique in France is very upset. My last meeting with our French liaison had them demanding financial assistance for their new, expanded Auror patrols because the refugees making it over are…" She hesitated, picking her words carefully. "Less prepared for No-Maj France than they should be. Incidents threatening the Statute of Secrecy have increased, and they are beginning to discuss shipping the refugees back to Britain."

"The French will have to face the reality that refugee camps will need to be set up." That voice took Archie a moment to place, since it came from Chess' comm orb, but it was Gerhardt Riemann, their liaison with Wizarding Germany. "Wizarding Germany will still take refugees, but they must follow the legal process. That may not mean following your routes, Hermione, but it does mean presenting themselves to the German Ministry and making an application for status. They cannot simply cross into our borders and try to hide without status. We have informational bulletins being released in our news regularly, but even last week our Aurors found a group of seven British mages in the Black Forest, surviving by stealing from the No-Maj markets. We have resources for resettlement that do not involve petty theft from our No-Maj neighbours. Is there nothing more that you can do in Britain on this?"

"If I could have, I would have," Hermione said, a slight edge to her voice. "We've also been sending out word through our regular sources that refugees can present themselves to us and we'll put them through the process in the safest way possible, but the refugees slipping outside of our usual routes are the ones who don't follow our news sources or trust us to help them."

"We'll put it out again, at least that there are processes for refugees to follow if they want to leave," Archie interrupted, making a note on his pad of paper. "And I'm sure Aunt Lily can find a way to work it in when she goes on her tour, too, for those who are already abroad. She has interviews lined up through Wizarding America already, then she'll be travelling around the world."

There was a heavy sigh from the comm orb. "There is little else that can be done, so I appreciate it," Gerhardt replied.

"I'm already hearing the marketing starting in the States for the Lily Evans revival tour," John added, sounding bright. "If her interviews go well, we can hope for more political support for both financial aid and refugee acceptance. MACUSA remains willing to accept refugees, and it might be best for anyone who comes forward now through the formal channels to be sent to America—we're far enough away that we aren't seeing anyone come across on boats or illegal Portkeys, and we can take some of the weight off our European allies."

"Thanks for that, John." Hermione sighed, pursing her lips slightly. "I'll make a note of it, though Wizarding Europe will claim you're taking all the easiest refugees to resettle, as if there is such a thing as an easily resettled refugee. I'd also note that the ones coming forward to us now are significantly fewer than those making a run on their own. We also desperately need more funds to support the refugees—I can only hope that Lily's interviews lead to more donations. In other news, for those who haven't heard, Saoirse Riordan was elected last week as the Taoiseach for Wizarding Ireland, in a landslide victory. She has opened her borders to resettlement by internationally-educated British halfbloods and newbloods, an offer which many of the BIA's internal British network is taking."

"Really?" Uncle James sounded surprised. "But they're British—turning and emigrating to Ireland now—"

"The BIA membership is largely sympathetic to Ireland," Hermione interrupted flatly. "British newbloods and halfbloods have more in common with Irish mages like the _Tuatha Dé _and the Free Irish than we do with the British, because we all schooled together abroad. Most British halfbloods and newbloods who returned home after schooling just wanted to stay close to their families. For many of them, Ireland is a nice compromise, where their educational backgrounds are respected and they are free to work wherever they want and marry whomever they please, while staying closer to their Muggle families than they would be in America or Australia. Northern Ireland also has the benefit of still being within the borders of the Muggle United Kingdom, which is much easier to contemplate than a move to America."

Uncle James winced at the admonishment, but he didn't comment. There was a moment of silence, before Dad cleared his throat.

"On the supply front, we've secured most of our routes," Dad said, pulling the attention to himself. "I've spoken with most of the Guilds. They aren't supporting us directly, but most of them will deal to us under the table. In terms of potions ingredients and our potions stores, we're stocked for a month of limited engagement except for the vampire antidotes, which Harry is working on now."

"One of the ingredients is rare, and needs to be imported from abroad," Harry added by way of explanation. "We ran out, and the substitution would require more of the other ingredients and considerably more magic for a weaker result. We expect another shipment of _Masdevallia_ orchids within the next few weeks."

"That's fine," Archie interceded. "We have enough, and I've done reviews of every safehouse's supply of Healing Potions. At least three members of every safehouse is trained for first aid, and we also have a call list of Healers with on-duty shifts if more advanced help is necessary. Every safehouse is also equipped with at least one cache of Healing Potions, and most have two or three. For the rest of my update, _Bridge_ is still doing well, though we've had to adopt a more random distribution schedule to help mitigate the risk to our distributors. With the Irish announcement, we've also had two distributors withdraw because they moved to Ireland, so we're actively recruiting additional support. Still, we're having an out-size impact because people are often making two or three more copies for their friends themselves. _The Underground_ is also still working, but it's hard to gauge their impact. They haven't opened themselves up to owls, so it's one-way communication as far as we can tell. But Voldemort hasn't successfully tracked down their signal or attacked them yet, either."

"We can always do another break into the WWN," Tonks suggested with a daring grin. "That was _funny, _that!"

"If we wanted them to be hunted down," Moody growled. "As long as they don't draw attention to themselves, Voldemort is likely to leave them alone. The newspaper is enough of a target, and we need a way to provide information quickly more than we need people to think we're _funny_."

"I agree." Uncle James nodded. "Shield before the sword, as it were. Should we move on? Queenscove?"

Most of the other reports were brief, only a few words about shoring up the defenses at their own manors, more requests for military support, and discussions of defensive pacts between neighbouring estates. Queenscove had taken in most of the recruits from abroad, as well as from those educated abroad—most of their forces weren't comfortable among the Hogwarts-educated pureblood elite, nor were the Hogwarts-educated pureblood elite necessarily comfortable with them. At some point, they would need to consider shuffling forces for a more even distribution, but since Queenscove still only had the equivalent of four units and provided primary support to both Goldenlake and Naxen, that was a problem that could wait for the new year.

Tonks had a long update about increased magical crimes being committed against Muggles which the mages hidden within Scotland Yard were starting to have trouble burying. Normally, the mages at Scotland Yard would find a way to close the case through Muggle means, but would provide their investigation notes to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in turn, would investigate the crime within the wizarding world and lay charges. Voldemort's Ministry, however, was not enforcing the laws protecting Muggles, and extremists were emboldened into more attacks. The priority at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was to capture or kill the rebels, and mysterious Muggle deaths were falling by the wayside.

The shifters were still going about their business unnoticed—with the exception of Blaise Zabini, who was currently wanted for questioning, most of the other shifters were staying unnoticed. They were people like the Abbotts, who were prolific but not powerful, and generally considered not worth anyone's attention. And yet, they had set firm watch rotations around Malfoy Manor, the Ministry of Magic and the Lestrange Manor, and were starting to gain a general sense of Voldemort's habits and those of his top lieutenants, as well as weaknesses in their target locations. It was slow, tedious work, but Archie could see how it would give them critical information in the end.

The meeting wore on for two and half hours, during which Archie became very thankful that Aldon had supplied plenty of snacks, as well as coffee, tea, and water. By the time that they were reaching the close, Archie was beginning to yawn—they had gone without breaks, and a break was sorely needed. His brain thought it was too long to be focusing, to be taking notes and listening, but these meetings were only once a month and they were very much a necessity.

"What do you think we can expect for the holidays?" he asked, when it became clear that the meeting was winding down. "We've spoken a lot about what we've done, but a lot of future plans we've said have to wait until next year. What about Voldemort? He's not going to be relaxing, is he?"

Lina shook her head, but her mouth twisted into a sour sort of smile. "No one can tell what Voldemort might do. But the newspaper article has, it seems, focused his attentions internally for the past weeks, so he has not had time to plan any new actions. It is also difficult at the best of times to get troops on the field over the holidays—his most fervent believers would be no problem, but if he is courting a mutiny, or if he believes he is, he may not have the political capital to spend on a large force for a holiday strike."

"They said that about the Tet offensive, too," Moody growled in response, glaring around the table. "No, we don't expect an attack. But we might be wrong. Don't drop your guard schedules. Constant vigilance!"

"And with that," Dad said, his mouth twisting into a bit of a helpless grin, "I suppose you want to tell us all to have a happy holiday?"

XXX

The air was cold on Francesca's face, a feeling that made her break out into smile. She fought to keep herself from skipping down the sidewalk. Oxford Street, the heart of shopping in London, was absolutely _packed_ on Christmas Eve, but she was outside. She was off Rosier Place grounds. She was around other people, people that she hadn't seen yawning over breakfast every day for months, and it was almost Christmas and the very air seemed to be celebrating with her. Even the fact that she was being tailed by two bodyguards, being Alex himself and one of his lieutenants, a dark-eyed, raven-haired beauty named Bianca, could not dampen her spirits.

She was outside. She was in London, shopping. She was, for a few hours, _free_.

It wasn't that she _disliked_ Rosier Place. Rosier Place was very nice, especially with the holiday decorations going up around the building. Lina and Moody had grumbled at length about how frivolous the decorations were, but Aldon had seen the sparkle that came into her eyes when she saw the glitter-charms and never-melting icicles going up through the manor. Rosier Place was indeed celebrating the holidays, and they were going to further extremes than they had in anyone's memory.

But it felt like she hadn't left Rosier Place grounds in _months_. She had gone to Queenscove a few times, and to Grimmauld Place twice, but with the war, she often felt underfoot. Queenscove was always busy with training schedules and patrols, and Grimmauld Place was too crowded. And she had a lot to do at Rosier Place, so she just hadn't left. There was always more to do.

It just made being outside, walking around in No-Maj London, going _shopping_, even more exciting. It was probably going to be the only time she would get out to go shopping for another six months at least, so she fully intended to make the most of it, and damn whatever her two bodyguards thought. She even had _money_, because her parents had sent her usual allowance for AIM books and housing to her through their joint bank account, and Aldon still refused to take a penny from her for rent. All of that was available for her to spend.

She started in the clothing stores. She had come with a full wardrobe, but most of her dresses were decidedly meant for a climate that was _not_ Wizarding Britain. AIM and San Francisco were both considerably warmer than Britain in winter, even if the part of Kent where Aldon lived favoured cold rains instead of snow. A new, waterproof, winter coat, a variety of new, long-sleeved dresses with thick stockings and several woolen cardigans made it into her bag, spelled with paper charms to be both smaller in size and weightless.

They stopped in a lingerie store for new undergarments. Francesca really would have preferred to do this particular visit on her own, but one look at her two bodyguards and she knew they would be following her in whether she liked it or not. In Bianca's case, the dhampir was taking the chance to shop for herself so she didn't mind, but Alex walking in and adding three very racy nightgowns to her pile of purchases was unnerving, to say the least.

"I—I don't—" she stammered, picking up one of them, which was so thin as to be sheer. It wasn't that she didn't like nightgowns, because she did prefer them, but hers were usually much more functional. Hers weren't see-through.

Alex just shot her an amused sort of glare, and Francesca sighed and took them all to the register. Alex had sharp teeth, and no one said she had to wear them. And they _were_ very pretty, so maybe she wouldn't even mind trying them on, in the privacy of her own room. There was nothing like pretty clothes to make her feel pretty.

After that, she poked into a second-hand bookstore and bought out half of their stock of romance novels—a considerable proposition, because there were simply so many romance novels—then went into a new bookstore on a hunt for Christmas presents.

In the middle of a war, with almost everyone on lockdown, there would be nothing like No-Maj books to pick up people's spirits. She hit the thrillers for Christie—there was a new Stephen King novel that she would like, then she found a short story collection for Aman, and a poetry collection for Albert. For Archie, she picked up _Good Omens_, co-authored by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, and for John, as many of _The Sandman_ comics as she could find. Tina had always been a hard buy, but she found a wedding planning binder for her, while Neal got _Tigana_, a fantasy from Guy Gavriel Kay. For Hermione, whose tastes in books she had never really figured out because Hermione simply read everything, she just went to where the newest and latest literary fiction novels were and bought a book by Margaret Atwood on the recommended reads table. Since she was there, she found books for her parents—a business strategy book for her mother, and a historical fiction novel for her father.

And then, she only had to find a present for Aldon.

What did one buy their boyfriends, anyway?

She had made him cufflinks last year, which she saw that he wore every day. He liked to read, but most of his books, she saw, were magical theory—none of which she would find in a No-Maj bookstore. He had a collection of romance novels, of the exact kind that she read, but she suspected that he only read them because _she_ did. Like Archie, he did have some interest in No-Maj science and technology, but unlike Archie, Aldon's interests were more practical than speculative. Archie dreamed about space, about science fiction, about the future, but Aldon was focused on what No-Majs had now and how it could be used alongside magic. She couldn't see him enjoying books like Sagan's _Cosmos_ or Hawking's _A Brief History of Time_ as Archie did, and yet there was something decidedly unromantic about buying him a physics textbook for Christmas.

What else did she know about him? What was he interested in, other than magical theory, science, and technology? If they could get laptops working reliably at Rosier Place, she might have tried to buy him a video game of some kind—Civilization II had just come out, and she could see Aldon enjoying conquering the world in video game form—but there was no way he would have the time to play it. Not, at least, until the war was done. He didn't seem like the type who liked knickknacks, though Rosier Place was full of them. She had never seen him play any sort of board game or card game and she knew he didn't follow sports.

She gave up at the bookstore, paid for the books that she did find, and wandered back out onto Oxford Street. Clothing stores—she didn't want to buy him clothes. There was a records store, but she had never seen him listening to music. It wouldn't have been hard to make him a CD player like Archie had, but she wasn't sure if Aldon would use it. There was a stationary store, but Aldon already had dozens of notebooks and fine quills and fountain pens, and she had no idea what she would buy anyway. An art supply store? She thought Aldon would throw himself off the roof of his manor before taking up sketching or painting. Home décor or other decorations were too impersonal, especially when Rosier Place was already so beautiful. The bookstore was already out.

"What, um, do you think Aldon would like?" she asked Alex, stopping a little bit off the sidewalk. "His interests—you went to school with him. You've known him longer than me."

Alex shrugged. "A Muggle history book? He doesn't like being ignorant. I had to teach him about the Second World War, so I'm sure a Muggle history primer would be appreciated."

Francesca wrinkled her nose. "But we just _left_ the bookstore," she muttered. "And it's so _impersonal_. A history book."

"The best present for a man you're seeing, in my opinion, is a present for yourself," Bianca declared, looking into the nearby makeup store with interest. "Just make yourself up, put on your sexiest underthings, and put yourself in his bed. Easy."

"We aren't—" Francesca coughed slightly, blushing. "We aren't at that point in our relationship."

"That's the _first date_ stage, dear," Bianca replied, patting her on the shoulder with a wicked grin that flashed her fangs. "You know what they say, you should always test-drive the car before you buy it. Or, in my case, investing in a date at all. Why wait to be disappointed?"

"Not—not that time, for us," Francesca tried again, looking away, and her eyes caught on the shop across the street.

It was a small shop, not like the behemoth clothing chains that bordered it on both sides. The gold letters over the entryway were simple, only saying _Carter's Fine Watches and Jewellery_, and the background was painted in blue so dark that it was almost black.

High-end watches were a status symbol. James Bond always wore a watch, the brands varying from Rolex to Breitling to Tag Heuer. In the movies, there was no better shortcut to show the wealth and prestige of a man than the brand of his dress watch. Her own mother had lectured her, saying that if she wanted people to pay attention to her in the business world, she needed a good timepiece along with expensive, understated jewellery. Her own dress watch was a minimalist Movado, with a single diamond marking noon—a gift from her mother after she'd won the partnership with Blake & Associates—which she had never worn.

A dress watch was the staple of a good wardrobe, and Aldon didn't have one. Not as far as she had seen.

Before she knew it, she had crossed the street, heading for the tiny, exclusive shop. She wouldn't be able to afford anything truly high-end, nothing like what James Bond wore, but maybe she could find something both elegant and affordable. Hopefully. Her budget was the highest it had ever been, but high-end watches ran in the thousands of pounds.

She didn't have a thousand pounds. She might have eight hundred pounds.

The shop felt even smaller inside than it had looked from the outside. There was only one old man there, sitting in the corner with a newspaper, and a long, glass showcase ran down the length of the shop. Bianca came inside with her, for which Francesca was grateful—Francesca looked her age by Asian standards, but most people who weren't Asian tended to think she was younger. Bianca looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties, though Francesca suspected she was older. Having Bianca there, someone who looked like she had the age and the money to be shopping for fine jewellery, made Francesca feel like the shop owner wasn't going to come over and kick her out the minute he spotted her.

The men's watches occupied two cabinets at the end. Most of them were outside of her budget—even Rolexes, the most accessible of the high-end watch brands, started a digit above what her budget allowed. There were only six timepieces within her budget, and she took the time to examine them all carefully.

Aldon wouldn't know anything about No-Maj watch brands, she realized. There was something a little bit pointless about buying him a symbol of luxury from her world, because Aldon probably wouldn't even recognize it for what it was, at least not until Christie or Lina told him. She could probably buy him a cheap and pretty watch from somewhere else, and he would like it just as much. But she would know, and she wanted Aldon to have something prestigious that he could wear out into the No-Maj world. And there was something wrong about the idea of Aldon wearing anything less than prestigious.

Every watch here would be a status symbol of some kind, so Francesca focused on what she thought Aldon would like. Not a big, chunky watch, nothing that showed two or three extra dials or endless gears—their faces were too crowded, and they didn't suit him. They'd also be too big to work well on Aldon's wrist, and Aldon's style was sleeker. It should be something simple, something minimalist that screamed quality. Movado would be a good choice, but the black watch face on the one they had in the shop didn't speak to her. It didn't have numbers, and while she was sure Aldon could read a watch, she knew well that most people preferred the hours to be marked.

That left just two: an Archimede and a Hamilton. The Archimede had large hour markings, in a font that Francesca found blocky to the point of being childlike, for all that it was at the upper end of her budget. The Hamilton, however…

It was minimalistic without being too minimalistic. Numbers marked noon, three, six and nine, with lines indicating the other hours, gold on a black face with tiny, thin gold hands. It was elegant but functional, attached to a sturdy, deep brown leather strap. It was masculine, but without being ostentatious.

According to the tiny placard beside the watch, Hamilton watches had been in the movies since 1932, when Clive Brook and Marlene Dietrich had worn them in the _Shanghai Express. _Since then, they had been worn in action movies and science fiction films both; directors from Martin Scorsese to Stanley Kubrick used Hamilton watches as props. The brand had a story behind it, and even if Aldon really had no idea what that meant, Francesca thought that he would like the symbolism.

"That one," she said, and Bianca had to help her get the shop owner's attention.

On the way home, the watch secure in the bottom of her bag of romances, she co-opted Alex and Bianca into carrying back takeaway for everyone still at the manor. Chinese food was not precisely holiday-themed, but what could Francesca say? She missed Chinese food, and she was sure that everyone back at Rosier Place would appreciate it. Aldon's elves were excellent, but their food was decidedly British in bent: salads, bangers and mash, steak and kidney pies, shepherd's pies, beef stews. Occasionally, there was pasta or pizza, though only in the plain Italian style rather than heavily heaped with ingredients like in America.

Christmas morning dawned clear and cold. There was no snow this far south in Britain, but at least it wasn't raining. Despite the decorations, Aldon hadn't planned anything for the people living at the manor generally. Training and patrols went on as normal, and she knew that Aldon would still be spending at least the morning reading reports. He had planned for them to have dinner tonight, but that wouldn't be for hours yet.

When she finally deigned to get out of bed, thinking vaguely of spending the afternoon reading in her favourite window-seat overlooking the training grounds, she spotted the pile of presents stacked on her coffee table. A smile started spreading over her face—she had known that the elves would be delivering presents, because she had given all of her gifts to a helpful elf last night who had promised that they would be perfectly wrapped and delivered—but somehow, she hadn't connected it with herself.

She fell on the pile with glee. There was a whole _collection _of used Regency romances from Hermione, who had inevitably written a note about how they were _still_ all tropey and terrible, and most of them were anachronistic as well, to which Francesca couldn't help laughing. She and Hermione might be friends more out of circumstance than anything else—they wouldn't be friends if Francesca were not friends with Archie, but Archie did not come without Hermione—but she knew with a bone-deep conviction that however much Hermione might disagree with her on her tastes, she would fight to the death to ensure that Francesca was allowed to enjoy them. Archie had sent her a set of wizarding robes made in the British style, because he was of the opinion that she needed a set, while John and his family had shipped over a big supply of her favourite kind of tea, along with a smaller version of the formal tea set they had bought her the year before. Her parents had sent her a card letting her know that they would deposit her gift directly into their joint bank account, and there were books, throws, scarves, and sweaters from her other friends. Even Lina had given her a book of runic defensive magic, which only made Francesca feel guilty that she hadn't gotten the formidable witch anything at all.

She left Aldon's gift for last. It was a long, flat box, wrapped only with a white ribbon tied in a bow. She tugged the bow loose and pried the box open, praying it wouldn't be too extravagant. It wasn't a ring, at least, that much she could tell from the shape of the box. No gemstones, please, she begged silently. No gemstones, and no family heirlooms, and nothing that cost more than a month's worth of wages, please.

It was a necklace. Gold, but it was simple in design with a tiny gold-dipped origami crane as a pendant. It was pretty, and even if Francesca could tell that it had likely been expensive, it wasn't too much. It wasn't a Rosier family heirloom, and it wasn't covered in rubies or emeralds or diamonds. It was nothing that screamed of magic, and it was nothing that any member of the Rosier family would have ever worn before her.

It was something he had gotten just for her.

Dinner was too far away.

She pulled out the necklace, put it on, and ran out of her rooms. Rosier Place was big, the guest wing and common areas crowded with people having private get-togethers, but it was only a few minutes before she was tearing into Aldon's private study. He was blessedly, blessedly alone, which meant that she could launch herself at him, throw her arms around his shoulders, and peck him on the cheek.

"Thank you for the present," she said, as he turned towards her and tugged her into his lap. "It's perfect."

He smiled, bright with a hint of shyness, and she spotted his new watch on his wrist already. "Happy Christmas," he said, and he tapped her chin down for a proper kiss.

XXX

Queenscove was too crowded, Neal decided firmly. And Butler's demand that he host a grand, formal Midwinter Feast, in the style of the Queenscove Lords of old, was ridiculous, even disregarding the fact that it was made by an ancient house-elf wearing a reindeer-patterned towel straight off the Harrods Christmas section.

They were at war. No one else, to his knowledge, was doing anything like a huge and formal event, but his head elf was implacable on the subject. His elves, if he wanted to be accurate, because his other two elves wouldn't hear a word against it, either.

"The Lord Queenscove is always hosting a Midwinter Feast," Butler said sternly, the third time that Neal had tried to dissuade him.

"But you're already feeding nearly fifty people every day," Neal protested. "And you clean, and you do the laundry, and you already do so much. There's only three of you! Isn't a feast just going to be too much?"

Butler scowled at him, and when he spoke, his voice was, to say the least, very much offended. "It is not being too much work. We is having the traditional Midwinter Feast, my Lord Queenscove, and that is being final."

Neal winced and left it at that. His elves were surprisingly stubborn, when it came down to it.

Despite his telling them that decorations weren't necessary, his elves had also gone and decorated the castle to the nines again, with a twelve-foot tree and even more garland than he had seen last year. He could hardly walk anywhere in the castle without being confronted with all the trappings of the holiday season. Holly, tinsel, and worst of all, mistletoe.

His castle _loved_ mistletoe. Absolutely loved it. And what the elves put out, it moved around. And then it made it absolutely impossible to leave unless the requisite kiss had been given and received. Neal's attempts at reasoning with his castle had accomplished next to nothing—even if his castle had stopped trapping Neal and Yuki after a day, Graeme had had to be rescued no less than eleven times, Fei eight, Dom five, and Kel twice. And that was only over the past five days!

When it happened to his friends or family members, it was pretty funny, but with the dreaded Midwinter Feast coming up later that evening…

His mother would be scandalised if she had even a hint that his guests had been made uncomfortable, which was why he found himself, that afternoon, trying to reason with his stone inheritance. His life was a strange place.

"Come on, Queenscove," he muttered, resting one hand on the wall at the back of his Hall. He could control the castle from anywhere, but sometimes, he thought he had a better connection to the stubborn building if he faced it where he had first met it—at the primal keystone that had trapped him here, more than a year ago. "I'm doing the Lord thing. I'm having the Feast, even if it's the middle of a war and it's the most ridiculous thing ever. It's embarrassing, but I'm doing it, so please just put away the mistletoe. Leave my brother and cousins alone. And please don't make the other guests make out with each other."

_I'd never embarrass you like that,_ the castle replied, inasmuch as the castle ever replied. Neal thought there was a hint of faux innocence to it.

Neal glared at the wall, demanding, putting pressure on his castle the way that Aldon told him to do it. Aldon, that lucky bastard, never had any problems with Rosier Place. His manor was quiescent, giving him information on his request, and it never tried to play tricks on him. Neal couldn't think of a single time where Aldon's manor had changed where a door went on him.

Queenscove was tricky. It seemed to shift, almost like a child caught misbehaving, before it replied to him. _Graeme deserves it though, _it seemed to mutter. _Graeme is a son of Queenscove. He needs to act like it._

"And how does a son of Queenscove act?" Neal demanded at his castle, not caring how ridiculous he must look at this moment. Anyone who lived at Queenscove became used to the castle's ways, and Neal attempting to dress down his own castle was not an uncommon event. "Tell me, Queenscove, how _should_ Graeme be acting?"

There wasn't a coherent reply—just the strong sense that the castle wanted to be crowded, with dozens of Queenscoves living within it, and Graeme was twenty-five and wasn't even considering settling down yet. Neal wanted to bang his head against the wall.

"It is _almost 1997_," he hissed at the wall. "It is _perfectly normal_ not to settle down for awhile, or at all. Get over it. What about Dom, or Fei, or Kel, then?"

The castle shifted again, but Neal pinned it down mentally. Fei and Dom were Queenscoves by association, since they were related to Neal, and the castle thought that they, too, needed to abide by certain standards of behaviour. As for Kel, the castle knew that that Kel was Neal's best friend in the world, so the castle was trying to give her a reason to stay. And what better reason for her to stay than if she was involved with one of Neal's family members?

Neal actually banged his head against the wall, then.

"Ouch," he muttered again, then he glared at the wall and imposed his will. "Well, stop_. _Just stop. No more mistletoe. It's unbecoming of Queenscove Castle to be throwing people at each other, whether or not they are part of the family!"

The castle fought him, annoyed, throwing out that it had been Queenscove for long before Neal was born, but Neal tightened his grip. It thrashed, but after a moment, the feeling subsided.

_No more mistletoe, _it agreed, sulking.

Neal sighed in relief. He would ask the elves to remove the mistletoe first thing tomorrow morning, and hopefully he wouldn't have to deal with this problem again until this time next year. He had no delusions that the castle would have "forgotten" this conversation next year, but that could wait until next year.

Turning around, he saw that his hall had been decorated to the extreme. They hadn't removed the embarrassing tapestry of someone who looked far too much like him for his comfort, but a huge tree dominated one corner of the room, blocking at least part of the tapestry from view. The tree was decorated in gold chain and glowing light-spells in about eighteen clashing colours, while the windows were lined with huge fake icicles across the top and an even layer of magical snow across the bottom. Massive poinsettias lined the walls, far larger than Neal had ever seen in his entire life, while wreaths were pinned on the wall every three feet opposite the tapestry. A ten-foot never-melting ice sculpture of, Neal was embarrassed to see, himself stood before the entrance, and a soft, glittering substance that Neal thought was supposed to be snow fell from the ceilings. Behind the High Table, his elves and the castle had managed to set up a waterfall, which threw off gold sparks instead of droplets of water at them. It looked like Queenscove had vomited its adoration of him plus Christmas over his Great Hall.

The tables, at least, were somewhat more subdued. The High Table was lined with evergreen boughs on the edge facing the public, while tall candles were spaced evenly down the table. The gold of the candlesticks matched the edging on the formal china already set out on along the table. Below the dais, two long harvest tables had been set up, both with long, gold runners and centrepieces of evergreen and berry-spotted holly. In the daylight, it was beautiful, as long as no one looked too closely at the walls around them.

At night, when the walls, the statue, and the tapestry had faded into the darkness, it was stunning.

Maybe, he thought, looking out at the forty-odd people dressed in their best, seated at the two long tables in front of him, being the Lord Queenscove wasn't so bad. There were things he didn't like—being trapped in Britain had never been in the plans, and being caught up in a war even less so. But there was the castle, and there were his responsibilities, and for someone as flippant and silly as he often pretended to be, he did like having responsibilities.

His parents sat to one side, his father dressed in robes with the Queenscove insignia, his mother in a traditional _hanfu_ with the symbols of her family. Neal himself had chosen Queenscove insignia as well, but in the traditional surcoat of Chinese heirloom-casters, while Graeme's surcoat was quartered with the Song insignia. Yuki sat beside him, in a kimono marked with the Daiomoru crest—Kel, further down the table, had also chosen to put on a kimono, likely because Yuki was worried about being embarrassed if she were the only one wearing the traditional Japanese garment. Fei had dug out a blue-and-gold _hanfu_, though she had left off her family insignia since they were, unsurprisingly, on the outs again, while Dom was shifting at the end of the table beside her in his best dress robes. The only family members he had missing were Will, still in Geneva, and Jessa, who had gone to Dom's family in Toronto for the holidays because no one was prepared to let her into Wizarding Britain in the middle of a war.

Down the two long tables, he could spot people that he had come to know—mostly British, some of whom had lived as expatriates for many years, others who had returned home after schooling and who had lived under the rule of the Lord Riddle. A few of them had worked as Aurors in their adoptive countries, and a few more had Defense Masteries, but most had no experience in defensive magic at all before the war. A fair contingent of them, focused on the near end of one of the long tables, had been lawyers, and Percy Weasley sat with them. More than half of the people who had volunteered for a posting at Queenscove had lived in the No-Maj world before the war, working in shops or construction sites or offices.

There were only a few people missing—the people that could not be spared from their position on the walls. There were volunteers who would trade off with them halfway through the night, guaranteeing that they would get at least some of the festive experience. Separate plates for them had also been set aside, so that they would still get the meal.

His mother poked him in the side. "Yuanren, as Lord, you must give a speech before the meal begins," she whispered.

He blinked. "Er—a speech?"

His mother glared at him, so he hurriedly stood up while Yuki hid a smile.

"Er—I'm told I have to give a speech," he announced, improvising quickly. He had been a stage actor, so he could improvise a speech with the best of them, or so he thought. "It would have been nice to know this ahead of time, but maybe no one wanted to keep me from rambling on too long. Thank you, everyone, for your dedicated service thus far. A Midwinter meal is the least that we can provide for you, so please—enjoy!"

He sat down, and his elves promptly began marching out to serve them, the plates hovering in the air behind each of them.

A duck terrine with cranberries and pistachios. Smoked salmon salad, served with a chestnut, bacon, and parsnip soup. Only after the starters came the turkey, sitting on a bed of stuffing and surrounded by tiny sausages wrapped in puff pastry, with roasted potatoes, carrots, and Brussel sprouts on the side. Boats of gravy and cranberry sauce were spaced down the table, both of which Neal used liberally. He could hear his parents laughing on one side beside him, while Yuki was engaged in a heated discussion with Kel and Dom on her other side over, of all things, the best kind of cheese.

The candles burned lower, and even with one eye on his wards, he found himself relaxing. The sentries rotated quickly midway through the meal, well before dessert was served, and the sound of happy people filled the air.

He hadn't wanted to put on a formal Midwinter Feast. It had seemed like too much trouble, and maybe a little too distracting in the middle of a war. But now that he was here, he thought, it was worth it. It really hadn't been any trouble for him to put one on, not with the house-elves insisting on it, and carefree laughter filled the air.

They might be at war, but they could all use a break. For one day, it couldn't hurt.

XXX

At Potter Place, at that same instant, Archie and Harry were laughing over their own Christmas dinner. Like at Rosier Place and Queenscove, there were still patrols running over the grounds, but the Lord James Potter had given everyone except a skeleton patrol the day off. If one ignored the people walking out on the grounds, the circling walls, and the statue knights that stood sentry at the gates, it almost looked like the Christmases of many years past.

The dinner was the same, a grand Christmas turkey with stuffing, cranberry sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, squash, and buttered bread rolls. Archie and Harry were still in their pyjamas, and the floor was still littered with wrapping paper. They were still laughing over their presents, and Lily had given James yet another tie. Around them, there were stacks of books, both Muggle and wizarding; potions and Healing accessories; prank products, new robes, and Quidditch supplies.

But there were a few other signs of the war. Harry had given Archie a set of Battle Potions, along with a special belt-pouch to keep them in and a lengthy lecture that he should keep it close at all times; Archie had given her a new dagger, longer than her old one and wickedly sharp. Alongside the more mundane gifts were practical clothes for the training yard, charm bracelets with tiny metal charms that would explode if torn off and thrown, cloaks imbued with protection charms. The laughter was never truly carefree, and if James and Lily sat closer together than they normally would have and laughed a little louder than usual, no one commented.

One day. This was one day where the war could be pushed off the grounds, and even if they had to go back to it tomorrow, there was still today.

XXX

Pandora ran her fingers over the stunning silver showpiece that Voldemort had given her that morning. It was huge, and it was gorgeous, and it fit around her neck like it was made for her. Seven emeralds as large as quail eggs dipped down from it, laying evenly across her chest.

It wasn't even an old piece, this time. Voldemort had given her free reign over the family heirlooms of all the old families already, and Pandora had picked them clean. There had only been a few pieces that she had liked, because jewellery, unsurprisingly, came in and out of fashion just as other trends did. Her fashion sense did not, in practice, run to the gaudy pieces of the past. She had only a few rings, necklaces, and bracelets from those raids, but this piece had been made specifically for her, to Voldemort's exacting specifications.

The past few weeks had been, to say the least, annoying. Pandora had taken no pleasure in the massacre of Wales, for all that it had been on her list of suggestions. A better move, in her view, would have been an assault on any of the resisting noble houses, but Voldemort had liked the shock, awe, and fear of the Welsh approach. She supposed, at least, that the trial of the Anti-Apparition barriers had also been a success, for all that a third of their power stones had cracked under the strain.

It didn't matter, she thought. The point had been made. Voldemort was too powerful for a reasonable person to oppose, and the first few weeks after the assault had shown it. Hundreds of people had stepped forward to swear their loyalty to the new Ministry and to Voldemort personally, at least until the leak in the _Daily Prophet. _

Pandora was still not convinced that it was truly a leak. The article was too vague, and while it was ostensibly written from the perspective of a non-noble, it was only the noble families who had come to Malfoy Manor directly, for all of Voldemort's speeches about the equality of wizarding blood. The other details had been correct, and it was always possible that someone in the inner circle had become disillusioned and tried to hide their identity, but it was also possible that their enemies were trying to decrease their recruitment and sow dissension.

Voldemort did not care. In his view, leak or no leak, the response had to be the same. He would make an Example, and regardless of whether the person had actually been the one to leak, no one would ever attempt it again. It was disobedience towards the _state, _he had snapped, and if there was one thing that Voldemort could not abide, it was any hint of disrespect towards him. So, for the past few weeks, Voldemort had been on a witch hunt throughout his own ranks, searching for the source of the leak.

The sound of pleading had grown tiresome weeks ago, and most days Pandora found a way to excuse herself from Voldemort's presence and allowed him to carry on. She had better things to do with her time than watch Voldemort use his alarming proficiency at Legilimency on all those he suspected, and many that he did not.

Today, however, Voldemort had demanded her presence. So, here she was, presenting herself in the former Malfoy grand reception room. He was immersed in conversation with Travers, no doubt about the investigation within the _Daily Prophet_, and she spotted Bellatrix hovering in the background. The other Lestranges were nowhere to be seen.

She listened closely to Voldemort's conversation with Travers. Travers' investigation of the _Daily Prophet_ was still focused on Albansdale, the senior editor whose office had been tampered with, though the man was still pleading his innocence. Travers hadn't been able to squeeze any further information out of anyone, and while there was nothing specifically tying Albansdale to the article, action needed to be taken. Travers was recommending charges for criminal negligence be laid against Albansdale for presumably leaving his office unlocked.

She mentally made a note of it, figuring that the information could come in useful at a later time, because all information did. McNabb was standing to one side, similarly waiting, and when Voldemort was done with Travers, McNabb stepped forward. They talked at some length about the resistance, about the next steps that would be taken. They had raided multiple homes in the past few months, but hadn't found anything yet—they would need to move soon against one of the major rebel noble houses. In theory, the law of privilege had been struck, so Voldemort could, by law, have a search and seizure warrant issued and storm the noble strongholds as he had done with families that had not been noble.

In practice, things were a little different. The fact was that noble houses carried magical power within them, and the use of additional force required additional warrants, for which the Department of Justice firmly said that they lacked the evidence to support. Even if they did, there was the risk-assessment to be made by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a department that had been much smaller since the Welsh insurrection, when more than a third of the Ministry had either died or abandoned their posts. The Ministry was now short-staffed, and the reviews and recommendations came slowly—too slowly, for Voldemort's tastes.

Voldemort did not care about the warrants, and while he had been inclined to simply ignore the Department of Justice, Pandora had managed to convince him that disregarding the laws entirely would chip away at the "law and order" persona that he had been cultivating. The Welsh insurrection had allowed Voldemort to rely on ancient wartime laws, but the unusual proceedings had given _Bridge_ an opportunity to romanticize the event into an unjustified _genocide_. Any movement against the rebel noble houses had to be as official and boring as possible, a show of their _legitimate _authority, or they would be playing directly into _Bridge_'s hands.

McNabb was sent off with instructions to put more pressure onto the Department of Justice to find a justification for the issuance of the necessary legal warrants for additional force be used, against any or all of the resisting noble houses. Examples needed to be made, and Voldemort was eager to act.

Then, it was her turn, and Pandora swept an elegant curtsey before him. "Thank you for the gift," she said simply. "It is beautiful, and I am most grateful."

She touched her necklace once again, knowing that Bellatrix would be burning with jealousy from the shadows at the edge of the room. Her eyes lowered, she let her lips curve into a coquettish smile, exactly the kind of move that she knew the other witch could never pull off, and to which she would have no choice but to react. She was playing with fire, and she knew it.

"Not now, Pandora," Voldemort said, though his tone was indulgent. "You may play with Bella later. I need counsel."

"And how may I assist you?"

There was a slight pause. "Espionage," Voldemort said finally.

Far beneath the surface, Pansy shifted from where she had been observing and taking notes. She was too close to Voldemort to be able to control things directly, but with time, she had learned how to prod her alter ego. It had to be slight movements, the smallest things that had perfectly reasonable explanations attached to them, because while Pansy was ultimately the controlling personality, Pandora could never be aware that she was there. Pandora acted on her own, based on the experiences and history that Pansy gave her. But Pansy could sometimes slip things to her alter ego, try to push things in the direction she wanted.

Pansy was the spy. Pansy was the one that Aldon called the Swallow, and inside Pansy was every part of herself that needed to be hidden from Voldemort. Pandora was real, and Pandora controlled when Pansy allowed her to, but what Pandora knew could just as easily be handed over to Voldemort. There were things that Pansy had hidden, quite aside from her spy status. Her close relationship with Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, for one; her relationship with Aldon Rosier and his friends, for another. Her love of creatures, and her fervent desire to protect Parkinson Palace, for a third and fourth. These were things that were precious to her, and so, Pandora did not have access to them.

Pandora would accept a reasonable explanation, however, and Pandora had no problem thinking that they were her own ideas. If nothing else, Pandora was confident and self-assured to the point of hubris. So, Pansy listened. Maybe, just maybe, she could turn this to her benefit.

"Espionage?" Pandora asked, drawing the word out with a note of surprise. "Surely you do not mean to send _me_ away?"

"Of course not." Voldemort waved his hand impatiently. "You will stay here, where you belong. But I am having difficulty integrating my informants into the rebels' organization. I had hoped that, since you had gone to school with the younger Rosier, you might know something about him."

Pandora's lip curled in disgust. "I know only what most know," she said sourly. "We were Housemates, and our families were friendly, but even when he was believed to be a pureblood, he was the worst kind of nobleman. He was several years older than I."

"The worst kind of nobleman?" Voldemort turned dark eyes on her, and Pansy held fast to her memories. Pandora couldn't have everything, but she needed enough to support what she had said, so Pansy picked a dozen choice memories and threw them at her alter ego.

Three memories of Aldon speaking to her condescendingly—one where Pansy had been going out to exercise, and he had criticized her robes. He had always been kind to her, but it was superficial, as if he had never looked at Pansy once and taken her seriously. More memories of her childhood than anything else, because Pansy as a child was far more like Pandora than Pansy would have cared to admit, and it was easy enough to let Pandora to fill in the blanks.

And Pandora did.

"He never considered me seriously," Pandora said, right on cue, her voice bitter. "I am of the weaker sex, and he would never allow me to forget it. We were forced together by our families in childhood, but when he started school, we saw less of each other, though of course I was expected to maintain friendly relations with him publicly. People would comment, you understand."

"So, women are his weakness." Voldemort paused, thoughtful, and far beneath the surface, Pansy flailed. That was _not _how she wanted this interaction to go. "Ought I send a woman to him, then?"

Pandora shrugged, her nose wrinkling. "He would feel obligated to help and rescue a woman, yes, but he would never allow a woman to occupy a position of trust. More likely, he would send such a woman to safety overseas."

Pansy breathed a silent sigh of relief. If nothing else, Pandora was resourceful, and she was right. She submerged herself a little farther into her subconscious.

"And he is a Truth-Speaker." Voldemort shook his head, a heavy frown crossing his face. "I have informants, Pandora, but none have passed any good information for weeks. I suspect that they have been compromised. And Rosier has turned away my last five agents."

Underneath the surface, Pansy grabbed at a memory. She couldn't say that this would work, nor could she say that it was anything except an opportunity. But that was more than she had been able to give anyone thus far, and she threw the memories at her alter ego.

Aldon Rosier, rarely seen outside the company of one Edmund Rookwood. Sometimes, Alesana Selwyn was in those memories too, but Aldon Rosier and Edmund Rookwood had been near inseparable. She couldn't think of anyone else who had been closer to him, and Edmund Rookwood was _here_. He was less than happy about being here, that much Pansy knew, and she could buy him an opportunity out. One memory, and just enough information of their close relationship, and it was a chance. Both for him, and for Aldon.

"Edmund Rookwood," Pandora said, her lips curving into a vicious smile. "With Rosier, perhaps you should not attempt to trick him—anyone who would have the competence to fool a Truth-Speaker is better used elsewhere. Send someone that, even if he knows is a spy, he cannot refuse. Rookwood was Rosier's best friend through childhood and school. He will not refuse Rookwood. Have Rookwood seek help from his oldest and best friend, and Rosier will feel compelled to help."

"And how do we control Rookwood?" Voldemort studied her, skeptical but intrigued. "Rookwood has never been anything other than a reluctant participant. He could be turned."

"Not if we keep control of his wife." Pandora's voice was soft, but deadly. "Edmund Rookwood loves his wife more than he cares for his oldest friend. But Rosier has always hoped otherwise."

There was a moment of silence, as Voldemort considered the idea, but then he smiled. "Summon Rookwood to me, if you would, Pandora. I have much to discuss with him. Then have the younger Lestrange secure Alesana Rookwood at the Lestrange Manor. It is a better prison than Malfoy Manor."

Pandora nodded, turning on her heel and leaving the room. Far below the surface, Pansy breathed a small, cautious, sigh of relief.

It was a risk. She didn't know how Edmund would weigh Alesana's life against possibly betraying Aldon and his movement, nor whether Edmund would manage to pull off being a double agent if he did choose his principles. But it was a step, and she could only hope it was a step forwards, and not a step backwards.

XXX

_AN: Before anyone asks, I actually did have the article written, except meek described it as "a college sophomore's deep literary piece" and "completely unreadable", which were entirely accurate assessments. And it turned out that having Archie talk about the article instead was far more entertaining, so imagine about 1000 words of the same drivel that he was reading out loud and you've pretty much got the article. Also, clearly Francesca pays more attention to what James Bond is wearing than the plot of any James Bond film, but also fancy watches are very fancy. And yes, there is a weird experimental third-person omniscient PoV in the middle of this... it was experimental, I'm not sure I liked it, so happy to hear your thoughts!_

_Thanks as usual to meek_bookworm for her thorough beta, and to everyone who is kind enough to leave me a review! I do love hearing from you, so do indulge me!_


	11. Chapter 11

The message, decoded on plain parchment, was stark.

_Death Flight not pleased given information from agents within party, believes caught. Last five agents failed. Sending Rook because history, believes cannot refuse. Rook lady held ensure good behaviour hall strangers. Turn him. Spring Lord Lady executed. Daughters surviving. Death Flight remains not pleased. Further examples expectations. _

There was a certain art to decoding Swallow's messages. Like all his spies in sensitive locations, she cut pronouns and words as much as possible, limiting the most common words that were likeliest to lead to a break in the code, and also just to keep things simple for herself.

Swallow's codebook was an etiquette guide, so half of her words were used out of context or in different forms. Executed, in her book, referred to documents; expectations, in her notes, was nearly always meant to be read in verb form, and not as a noun. Most names were constructions of other words, homonyms or constructed ideas based off whatever she could think of at the time.

Death Flight was Swallow's determined code name for Voldemort himself, an almost-direct translation of the man's name into English. Aldon couldn't help but find it somewhat amusing—there was something about the literal translation that sounded completely ridiculous. Neal said it was ridiculous in French, too, but as a non-francophone, Aldon only saw the ridiculousness in English.

There was no way that Voldemort was his real name. Absolutely none. It struck Aldon as an overly dramatic name that one chose for himself as a teenager, when one decided their own name was not good enough. The fact that Voldemort had kept it past the age of majority suggested that whatever his childhood name had been, it must have been somehow embarrassing. Or, possibly, boring. One or the other.

_Hall Strangers_, that had to be the Lestrange Manor—another almost-literal translation. Spring Lord and Lady, Aldon only put together with Vulture's report a day earlier. Vulture's codebook was an herb encyclopaedia and accordingly, he was actually able say _Greengrass_, so Aldon knew already that the Lord and Lady Greengrass were dead. Unlike Vulture, Swallow had noted that both daughters, Daphne and Astoria, were still living, which had to be of some relief to someone. Malfoy would know better than him, so he would assign Malfoy to carrying the word to whoever needed to hear it.

He was only avoiding the central point of the note, and he knew it.

Where had Swallow even found the word _Rook? _He picked up the etiquette guide, flipping back to the page in question: it was a wizarding chess primer, because wizarding chess was something that every noble ought to know how to play. He sighed, slamming the book shut and pushing it aside, then reached for his notebook.

His notebooks were full of critical information—everything that someone taking over for him would need to know to step into his shoes. There was a blood spell on it that would break only on his death, and he carefully made a note of the date of the message, the messenger, and the rough contents before tossing the original and his translation into the fire that burnt in his study.

Ed would be coming. And Voldemort was right, on at least one point.

Aldon would not refuse him. Even knowing that he had been sent as a spy, Aldon would never refuse Ed. It didn't matter how much he had changed, or how many new connections Aldon made, or even that Aldon now had a _girlfriend_—Ed was _Ed_. Almost fourteen years of friendship did not end in one instant, or even in a year of mostly silence, or even multiple years of secretive stress.

Ed would always be Ed: Aldon's closest childhood friend. Sometimes, when his relationship with Alice was unusually fraught, over many years before Hogwarts and even at Hogwarts, his only friend. Ed was the only one who Aldon permitted to see nearly all of himself, his only unspoken secret being his own amatory feelings for his friend, and Ed knew Aldon better than anyone else in the world.

Ed was the one who dragged him through the classes he hated, from Defence Against the Dark Arts to Herbology. Ed was the one who kept an eye on his drinking, who kept him from embarrassing himself beyond the typical expectations of his family. Ed was the one who was always there, through the silence and coldness of Rosier Place, through Aldon's discovery of his own blood-status, even through the end when Aldon hadn't wanted to speak to anyone and Ed had interceded to send Alex after him. This was Ed, and no one could replace Ed.

Thinking back to his school days, it felt like he had replaced himself with someone else. He was not the Aldon that Ed would have recognized, and he couldn't even be sure that Ed's place beside him still existed. Or, maybe, it was the other way around—he didn't fit in the spot he had always occupied beside Ed.

He stood up and walked to the window, where he could watch the dhampir training in his makeshift training yard. He had been out there that morning. If he had to train, and in the middle of a war, he deemed it sensible to do so, it was easier for him to force himself out there shortly after six in the morning before the rest of his brain caught up to what he was doing. He wouldn't feel the misery of training until the first time either Alex or one of his men or women put him in the dirt. That still happened with alarming frequency, though he was getting better. It helped that most of the women preferred using guns, and while the men tended to tease him about it, the women did give him more advice than he knew what to do with. If Rosier Place was attacked, Aldon felt like he might actually be able to contribute in some way. A distant way, as much as possible, but neither was he likely to just keel over and die.

He had changed, and the changes weren't just skin-deep. On the outside, he had not shucked the Muggle-style formalwear that he had preferred when living in the Muggle world—by the time he had taken his title, they were at war. Whatever else one said about Muggle wear, it was easier to move in than robes, so he had simply kept the waistcoat and trousers. And, if he had to confess it to himself, the clothing was a symbol.

Even aside from his newfound minor ability to defend himself with wand and gun, he was very different from the Aldon that Ed once knew. He had lived in the Muggle world for a year; he had eaten a range of foods that Ed had never shared with him. He had ridden the Tube at rush hour, and outside of rush hour. He had shopped for himself in the Muggle world, seen the occasional film (though he'd never understand the passion that Archie had for the medium), read and considered and experienced a thousand things that his oldest friend never had.

That didn't even touch on Francesca. Ed had met Francesca at the Ministry Unity Ball, where she had even been introduced as his girlfriend. And Francesca was…

Frustrating.

But she was the sweetest kind of frustrating. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant that she was his girlfriend, and he didn't like how little value she seemed to place on their intimate relations—kisses, primarily, but he wondered if she would treat _everything_ intimate they did in the same way, as something she did with him now because she was with him now, but nothing more. Her frequent references to Muggle culture, too, were close to incomprehensible. When Ed knew him, he could never have conceived of _dating_ someone like Francesca, but now he couldn't imagine a life without her.

He had changed—in a hundred thousand ways, Aldon had changed. But his new world, as big and as bold and as bright as it was, was not a replacement for his old one. Not that he wanted his one world back, because Merlin knew he didn't, but there were things that only someone who had grown up with him could understand.

Aldon wanted Ed back. He wanted his friend, a connection to his past, beside him again. Archie, obnoxious and cheerful, did not have Ed's steadiness. Neal, dry and sarcastic, did not have Ed's calm. Even Alex, duty-bound and loyal as he was, did not have Ed's patience. Ed was the first to have figured out his secret, and he was the first to accept Aldon despite his blood-status.

Swallow wanted him to turn Ed. Aldon didn't know if that was possible, not with Alice being held for good behaviour at Lestrange Manor. In the continual war for Ed's attentions, Aldon could not help but feel that he had lost—he was only Ed's once-best friend, while Alice had become his wife. He had even sat across from Ed and Alice, a little more than a year ago, at the Leaky Cauldron while Alice had attacked his decisions, and Ed had said nothing. Ed was ever the peacemaker, but even he could not broker peace when Aldon was prepared to burn the world down for what he wanted, and Ed and Alice had only wanted to live their lives in the comfort and privilege into which they had been born.

Alice being a prisoner would be a very strong incentive for Ed to do whatever Voldemort wanted him to do. Turning Ed, as Swallow suggested, would probably be impossible unless Alice was no longer an issue. Then again, if Aldon managed to free Alice, he suspected that Ed and Alice would simply flee abroad. Not that Ed wasn't a fighter, but Aldon wasn't sure that Ed would have enough personal loyalty to him to remain. Not if Alice went abroad, and Ed would inevitably send her abroad given the opportunity.

For a moment, Aldon toyed with the idea of issuing a kill order for Alice. First, a kill order on Alice would be considerably easier to execute than a rescue mission—Vulture had easy access to her, and while Aldon wasn't sure the extent to which he could order Vulture to kill, Vulture also had no personal connection to Alice. Vulture might kill her on Aldon's orders, and if he didn't, Aldon could think of one or two of his other spies who would. Without Alice in the picture, Ed would have nothing to force his loyalty to Voldemort, and if Aldon could pin the death on Voldemort or his followers, Ed would also have a powerful motive for revenge that Aldon could use for his benefit. Another motive, if Aldon wanted to be exact; Voldemort had killed his father and his mother-in-law as well.

But then again, if he did issue the kill order and Ed later found out, there would be no coming back from that. He sighed, turning back to face his office once more.

He'd have to wait and see. Rosier Place would need to be put on alert, and Ed allowed onto the grounds. Aldon would meet with Ed himself, and Merlin only knew what would come of it.

Edmund Rookwood arrived at Rosier Place six days later.

Malfoy was giving him a report of the messages that he had decoded, mostly Aldon's spies in the Ministry and other offices. Aldon needed to be careful with Malfoy—the wizard hid it well, but there was a flux to him that Aldon did not like. Some days, often shortly after Harry had visited, his words rang true, and he went through his work without Aldon needing to press him on any point. Other days, his words would be flat, and there would be a slight whiff of a lie of omission about him. On these days, Aldon pushed. He had no choice but to push, because Malfoy now had more information than the guesses he had had previously, and any betrayal would be paid in blood.

Aldon paused, feeling a warning from his wards. He gestured for Malfoy to stop.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked, his words sharp.

Aldon ignored him for the moment, demanding Rosier Place show him an image of the edge of his wards, where the disturbance had been. It flashed him an image: Ed, looking far older than he should, waited at the edge of the Rosier Place wards, frowning and touching the invisible barrier. Aldon blew out a slow breath, steadying his nerves, and mentally altered the wards for a moment to allow Ed to enter.

"A gift from Voldemort," he replied slowly, looking at Malfoy. "Edmund Rookwood. Would you mind telling one of our resident Stormwings or trainees to go to the library and keep the researchers there until the coast is clear? I do not want Edmund seeing any of them."

Malfoy nodded. "I will. Shall I stay there, as well? What is my cover?"

Aldon tilted his head slightly, thinking through the slow worry and tension that was creeping through his veins. It was possible that Voldemort had heard that Malfoy scion was with them previously, and even that Malfoy had attempted to join the military branch. But that had been weeks ago, and there was no reason why things couldn't have changed.

Given a choice, Aldon would prefer if he had more surprises up his sleeve than fewer. "You're not here," he said, looking Malfoy in the eye. "You were sent to Geneva to be with your mother early in December, and you remain there under the sanctuary of Wizarding Canada."

"And then, if I'm sent on a mission later, I won't be expected," Malfoy said, with another nod. "I will stay with the research division once in the library."

"Good." Aldon was already stacking his notebooks away on the shelves, the dark-bound volumes barely distinguishable from the other books surrounding them. He hesitated a moment, before deciding to leave the rest of his study as it was—Ed would hardly care about the Muggle fountain pens sitting with his quills, or the pads of paper piled on one side of his blotter. It was only the notebooks that held his secrets.

He took a moment grab his shoulder holster, holding his sidearm, and checked to ensure that his ACD had full batteries. With a second of hesitation, he turned it on—Swallow had implied that Ed could be turned, and therefore that this wouldn't be a simple assassination mission, but if any person on Voldemort's side had the ability to gain access to Aldon for the purposes of assassination, it would be Edmund Rookwood. Swallow didn't know everything, though Aldon could hope that Ed would have to, if he did want to kill him, do it the old-fashioned way. Ed might have chosen Alice, but Aldon could not believe that Ed would ever want to kill him enough to form the intent for _Avada Kedavra_.

With that, he left his study and strode halfway across his grounds.

Aldon stopped well before meeting Ed, mentally examining the defenses on his grounds. Unlike Queenscove or Potter Place, Rosier Place had no physical defenses. They relied solely on a series of magical defenses, several of which were set to give him physical defenses should they be attacked.

At that moment, the ground that he was standing on was spelled to collapse into a spiked trench twenty feet deep on his signal—his, or Francesca's, or Lina's, since it was Lina's blood-spell. Over the past six months, she had soaked a complete circle around his manor for this trench, which had become one of their primary physical defences. There were also two lines of explosive runes, tied to otherwise non-descript stones by a technique that Aldon didn't recognize, four spells that would release poison spells for an aerial attack, and six fire-spells. There was also a single flood-spell, meant to be used immediately after the trench was blown—the water would keep any open wounds bleeding, increasing the risk that the enemy would bleed out, it would distract them from doing any first aid, and it would likely drown anyone who was injured enough not to be able to flounder out of the trench.

Lina was not joking when she said that she intended on bleeding the anyone who dared to attack Rosier Place.

His grounds, though, showed no signs of the intense magical defenses that had been put in place. Even the explosive stones were hidden under a layer of turf. Aldon couldn't help but wonder how much Ed could sense of his defences—Ed had never been very interested in magical theory, but Aldon himself was evidence that people could change.

Harry had mentioned, the last time she had visited, that she could sense the magical residue, though she hadn't been able to distinguish the spells. Aldon himself, were he not the Lord of the manor, would have needed to cast several scry-charms to even begin picking apart the magic. Without magical theory, and therefore without Curse-Breaking and Ward Construction, Aldon suspected that Ed might have, at most, a sense that there were magical protections but that he would not know their extent or nature.

He turned to watch his oldest friend, who moved much slower than Aldon remembered, with a pronounced limp. Not that Ed had ever moved quickly—no, quick and fluttering movement had always been Aldon's purview, while Ed had always moved with calm deliberation. There was Ed, and there was Aldon flitting around him saying everything and nothing all at once. The limp, however, was completely new, and Aldon could see no hint of a lie around it. With quick hand movements, which he hoped would be concealed somewhat by their distance, he threw together a magical sight screen and examined his friend.

The limp was not a spell, and it was entirely real. Lina had seen Ed at the Malfoy Manor strike, though Aldon had heard nothing since. He wondered vaguely whether the injury was from the first strike, or from Wales, or something else.

Aldon picked out a number of sight and listening spells imbued on Ed's robes. He would need to wipe those spells before they spoke, but he saw no other magical items on him. No runecatches, nothing he could use to create a gap in Aldon's wards, not even a wand. It must have been taken from him, considered too much of a risk.

Ed was looking around as he walked. Aldon knew perfectly well that his friend had seen him, but Ed didn't hurry. Perhaps he couldn't.

"Aldon," Ed said, as he drew closer. Aldon looked him over for one long minute. Ed's dark hair was longer than Aldon had ever seen it before and tied back in a short, low tail, and he had two or three lines of silver stretching from his temples. He had lost weight, his broad shoulders seeming much less broad without the muscle that Aldon was accustomed to seeing, and his height gave him an unnatural, almost gaunt effect. His eyes lacked their usual warmth, but were filled instead with wary caution and more than a hint of desperation.

"Edmund," Aldon replied, his voice even, as he drew his wand with slow movements. Ed froze, but all Aldon did was cast _Terminus_, a stronger spell than _Finite Incantatem_, on the listening and sight spells that he could identify. Six of them—more than necessary, Aldon thought.

There was a long moment of silence when it seemed like Ed was taking him in. Aldon was still dressed in Muggle clothes, which he knew would be easier to move in than Ed's robes, and his sidearm hung at his side. His personal ward was up, and he was ready to move the second it seemed like Ed might go for him, or for another weapon, though Aldon didn't see one. The tension hung in the air, palpable, then Ed cleared his throat.

"I need help," he said, and his voice was filled with a mix of pain and desperation.

Aldon swallowed. "State that you mean no harm to me, to Rosier Place, or to anyone staying within Rosier Place." His words were quiet, and he was glad to hear that he only sounded a little strained and stern, rather than winded or choked.

There was a flicker of surprise, or perhaps it was more pain, across Ed's face. "I mean no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone within Rosier Place," he said, his voice slow and measured.

It was a lie. Of course, it was a lie, and even with Swallow's warning, Aldon felt a lurch in his stomach. Edmund did mean them harm—or rather, he knew well enough that the actions he would take would lead them to harm.

"You're lying," Aldon replied, and this time Aldon could hear the disappointment in his own voice. "I should escort you off my grounds."

"I need help," Ed repeated, and those words were both simple and true.

Ed had never asked him for help. In more than a decade of friendship, Ed had never gone to Aldon for help. Aldon, indeed, had typically been the one to need help, and Ed the one pulled along and present to provide help. Aldon had been flippant, flamboyant fluff, and Ed steady, serious substance.

"Come on, then," Aldon said, gesturing for Ed to go ahead of him. Once, Aldon would have simply led Ed back to Rosier Place with him. Indeed, he had a hundred memories where he had done exactly that. But they were at war, and by now, a combination of Alex, Neal, and Neal's family and friends had taught him never to turn his back on an opponent, not even an opponent that used to be a friend. No matter how sorry that friend seemed to be.

Ed hesitated a second, but he limped on ahead.

Looking towards his manor, Aldon could see one of the dhampir patrols covering the grounds, backed up by Acimović, one of their trainee Stormwings. Although Rosier Place itself would warn him or Francesca if there was anything amiss on the grounds, Aldon had no power past the edges of his territory. It was his physical patrols, eight times daily, that monitored the edges of his grounds, tracking the movements of the Ministry officials on sentry at his official Apparition point and keeping surveillance for any other unusual activity. Magic was, as Lina, Moody and Alex had impressed, no replacement for a physical eye.

Indeed, had Swallow not warned him, the fact that Ed had been able to Apparate to the edges of his grounds at his official Apparition point should have been clue enough that he had been sent.

Ed was looking over his grounds—he had been from the moment he had crossed over, Aldon imagined, reviewing Rosier Place's defences. Acimović and the two dhampir spotted Aldon and nodded at him briskly, a gesture that Aldon returned, but he left them to their duties. They would report to Alex later, and Alex would talk to him if there was something he needed to know.

Rosier Place did not look any more defended than his grounds did, though it was imbued with as many defensive spells as his grounds. If anything, the spells in his manor itself were even more destructive, because if anyone ever gained the house, the plan was for Aldon to destroy the manor as they retreated and escaped—in their case, to Queenscove. Queenscove was distant, but with Francesca being at Rosier Place and with the knowledge that he would carry out in his head, or more likely that she would carry out the form of his notebooks, it was critical that they evacuate to one of their strongest fortresses.

But Ed wouldn't see that. Ed, Aldon suspected, would only get the impression that Aldon's defences were primarily magical in nature, and he would know from the patrol that Aldon had soldiers stationed at Rosier Place. From the fact that he didn't know anyone in the patrol, Ed would probably guess that Aldon's units weren't local and that the alliance therefore had additional support, but Aldon didn't know whether Ed could spot a dhampir on appearance alone. Aldon could now, but that was a matter of exposure.

He directed Ed into his private study, gesturing for his friend to sit in the seat across from the huge, stone block that was both his primal keystone and his desk. Ed would not know that, not unless Aldon said anything about it—the stone wouldn't call to him as it did to Aldon, or even in the subdued way that he knew it called to Francesca. For Ed, the stone desk was only a massive granite block, black veined with gold and silver traces.

He clapped twice and asked Yeti, the house-elf that appeared, for a tray of tea before settling down into the seat behind the desk. Ed was silent, looking around Aldon's study, which he had changed very little from when it was his father's study. He had removed all the pictures, but most of the rest had remained, largely because Aldon didn't know what to do with it all.

"My condolences for your loss," Ed said suddenly, looking at Aldon. "For—for your father."

Aldon supposed, that in a time of war, it was best to clarify.

"It has been six months." Aldon nodded to the bust of his father that was still in the room. "And we were not close, as you know. I notice you limp, now."

"Malfoy Manor," Ed replied with a slight grimace. "I—a sword wound, courtesy of Queenscove. One of the Queenscoves. They look alike."

"And no Healers?"

"There were fewer of them among Voldemort's ranks than now." Ed looked away, back at the myriad trinkets lining the shelves of Aldon's study. "And they were focused on others with more serious injuries. They say there's little to be done about it, so long after my leg healed the way it did."

"I see." Aldon wasn't sure what else to say. Another time, he wouldn't have hesitated to ask Archie, or Neal, or any of their own Healers to take a look at Ed, but not now, and certainly not when Ed had said that Neal or his brother had inflicted the wound. "I am sorry to hear that."

"It is nothing." There was an awkward pause.

By the strictest terms of etiquette, they needed to make some sort of light conversation before they could get to business. It was impolite to proceed straight to the purpose of the meeting, abrupt and uncomfortable and rude. In theory, Ed should have been a close enough connection to him that the etiquette rules did not apply, but Aldon didn't feel comfortable going straight to the main point.

And yet, what was he supposed to ask? How Ed had been? How Alice was doing? Aldon could see from Ed's appearance alone that the past six months had been difficult, and he knew perfectly well that Alice was being held hostage at the Lestrange Manor. He suspected that Ed would be asking him for help on the latter point later anyway, and he was in no hurry to reach that stage in the conversation.

They were on the opposing sides of a war. What polite talk was there to exchange?

Aldon wanted a drink.

"How have you been, Aldon?" Ed asked, his low voice awkward.

"Fine," Aldon replied. "And you?"

"As well as can be expected." A short pause. "The injury—at least it has excluded me from active combat since."

He hadn't been involved in Wales, Aldon understood. Strangely, that was comforting to him, though Aldon wondered what Ed had been doing otherwise. Likely, trying to stay out of sight of Voldemort and outside of his attentions.

"I see," Aldon repeated.

"How is—" Ed hesitated. "Your girlfriend?"

Aldon threw him a sharp look, quickly running through his memories. Francesca had been at Rosier Place for the past six months, but her presence, and that of Blake & Associates, had been something he had tried to keep as quiet as possible. Voldemort's informants had been limited, and to his knowledge none of them had had any contact with her. Ed had said _girlfriend_, but then again, that was how they had been introduced more than a year ago. He had no real reason to believe that Ed would have known anything more than what Aldon had said at the Ministry Unity Ball, but at the same time, her presence was not, strictly speaking, a secret.

He chose to err on the side of caution. "She's fine. She's in America—at the American Institute of Magic. Sixth-year, now."

"She forgave you after the Ministry Unity Ball, last year?"

Aldon laughed, the sound coming out harsher, more discordant than he had intended. "She did. It took awhile, and more grovelling than I had thought myself capable, but she did."

A small smile crept across Ed's face. "And when can I expect the happy news, then?"

"Not until she's finished with school." Aldon looked away, the smile disappearing from his face as he scrambled for an answer. "I hope that she'll accept my proposal then, but her family is insistent that she pursue higher Muggle education as well. That lasts an additional four years, as I understand it."

"Surely that is not necessary." Ed looked around the study once more, not in observation but as an indication of all that Aldon had at his disposal. "You have enough, and there would be no need for her to have means of her own."

"That is true." Aldon smiled slightly. "But, in the current circumstances, I will not argue. There is no telling how long this war might last, and I'd rather her remain safe in America than be here with me. And, in the event that I do not survive this war, it would be best for her to have the education she needs to pursue a career of her own."

"I understand." Ed sighed deeply as Aldon's house-elf returned with a tray of basic Earl Grey, two small cups decorated in gold, a plate of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of milk. That meant that their interlude of lightness was over, and they could move on to the main event. Aldon busied himself for a moment pouring tea, adding a splash of milk only for Ed, and leaving his own cup black.

"You said that you needed help," Aldon prodded, sliding a teacup over to his friend. "But you lie about intending harm to me, to my manor, and to anyone at my manor."

His question, why should he help at all, went unspoken. This was a dance; Aldon knew well that Ed had been sent, and from Aldon's own lack of questions and reluctance to answer, Ed knew that he was suspected. But he was curious to see how his friend would play it—would he openly discuss the fact that he had been sent as a spy, or would that simply remain in the background?

"Voldemort has Alice," Ed said, with no further elaboration. "He holds her to ensure my good behaviour."

"Why not escape?" Aldon raised his own cup to his lips. "You said yourself—after Malfoy Manor, you were excluded from active combat."

"Voldemort keeps close eyes on Riddle's former inner circle—we are not permitted to leave. Lady Zabini tried, in September, and was caught."

Aldon had not heard that from any of his sources. The difficulty with his sources was that they reported to him what they considered to be important, a necessity when each and every message they got out could mean their lives. Lady Zabini's failed escape must not have seemed an event of any real importance, meaning that it was nothing more than the day to day for his spies. She had to have survived, else Swallow, at least, would have said something for Aldon to pass onto Blaise.

"Bellatrix was given her." Ed's voice was quiet. "A new toy. Voldemort's instructions were not to kill her, in case she could be used against the younger Zabini later, but we were forced to watch. All of us. Bellatrix did not kill her, but… there is nothing left of her. The only sympathetic thing one could do for her is kill her, and none dare."

"I would have thought that such a result would only encourage an escape," Aldon murmured. He would never have thought that Ed and Alice would be ones to be cowed by fear, and indeed he thought—or he hoped—that such a show would have only emboldened him on another plan of escape.

"With my leg—" Ed cut himself off, and his voice was bitter. "I don't move as fast as I used to. I can run hardly at all, and it—it pains me, Aldon, every day. I tried to convince Alice leave without me, but she refused. And we don't have wands. They were confiscated."

Aldon nodded, with mixed sympathy and understanding, though he was unsure what he was supposed to do about it. "And now you're here, with intentions of harming me, my manor, and the people under my protection."

His voice came out flatter than he had intended, and Ed glared at him. "Not willingly, Aldon. I hope you know that."

There was a curt silence, then Aldon sighed. "Yes," he replied. "I am aware. But what I cannot see is how you think I may help you. Do you honestly expect me to hand you my head on a platter, or those of anyone here at Rosier Place?"

"No." Ed looked down at his cup of tea. "Nor do I want you to."

That was true.

"Then what are you here for, Edmund?" Aldon pushed. "To examine or undermine my security? To find my weaknesses to hand to Voldemort?"

"That is what he hopes I will discover," Ed admitted, lifting his own cup of tea to his lips. "But I—if you can free Alice…"

"If I could free Alice, then what?" Aldon studied Ed, setting his teacup back down on the saucer with a small clink. "Would you stay and fight with me, Edmund? Would you flee?"

Ed hesitated for a minute, looking away, out the window. From this angle, Aldon knew that Ed wouldn't be able to see the training yards, but he couldn't help but be aware of anything that Ed might see, anything that Ed might hear, because he had to assume that it would all go back to Voldemort.

"If you freed Alice, I would try to persuade her to go abroad," Ed said finally, and that much was true. "And I would stay and fight with you."

The latter was a lie—but a weak one. It might be something that Ed didn't think would ever come to pass, or it might be something that he hadn't thought about or considered. Despite knowing that the lie was almost certainly unintentional, and that Ed might very well believe his words, he could not help but be disappointed. He could have hoped for more than his oldest friend.

"Even you don't believe that," Aldon snorted. "I do not know what you think I am, Edmund. I cannot create miracles, and even if I could, I cannot trust you not to report this conversation to Voldemort—whether willingly, or not. Why don't we speak plainly? I know you're here on orders, and more than that, I know that Voldemort knows that I will know that you're here on orders. You're here to bring information back to Voldemort, and I know you are. Voldemort sent you here because he knew that I would struggle to refuse you, and he was right. But what, in truth, do you truly expect me to be able to do for you?"

A pause. "I don't know," Ed admitted, and it was true. "But Voldemort expects me to be able to come and go. Please, Aldon. If you ever cared for me, or for Alice—"

"You want to turn on him?"

"Yes," Ed said, and that was true.

"Then, tell me what you have." Aldon leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk, and picked up his cup of tea.

Ed told him very little that he did not already know—he spent a long time on the atmosphere within Voldemort's ranks, but that came as no surprise. Aldon did receive confirmation that the magical barrier sealing off Wales during the massacre had been fueled by power stones, including the Selwyn family jewels, though Ed went on to inform him that more than a third of the stones had cracked under the strain. Voldemort could not try something like that again, or at least not on the same scale.

Any family whose members were within the Voldemort's circle was expected to give up their wealth and property to him. Most of them were, however, still permitted to live in their manors, but Ed and Alice, being both noble and not trusted, had been confined to Malfoy Manor.

Voldemort still kept the hub of his activity at Malfoy Manor. Whether it was because he didn't trust his followers, or because he preferred to keep his most loyal and violent people close to him, or anything else, Ed didn't know, but anyone with any power or influence stayed at Malfoy Manor.

Aldon asked for numbers. He asked for names. He asked for command structure, but Ed did not know. Ed would be expected to answer to Voldemort directly, bolstering Aldon's suspicion that, advisors or no, Voldemort remained a micromanager. If one managed to assassinate Voldemort, Aldon suspected that the rest of his organization would fall in short order. The only unfortunate part, from Aldon's perspective, was that Voldemort was alarmingly well-guarded by his fanatics and he was absurdly powerful even on his own. Aldon did not have so many spies that he could risk any of them on a suicidal assassination mission.

Over the course of two hours, Aldon paid attention to the image that Ed drew of Voldemort and his structure for him. It wasn't everything—no spy told him everything—but Ed's words would still tell him _something_. In person, Aldon could tell that Ed wasn't entirely sure how often Voldemort was present in Malfoy Manor. He could ask questions about details that didn't quite add up for him; he could ask for seemingly useless information that could be combined with the rest of his spies' reports to learn information that Voldemort might have been attempting to hide. And, of course, it didn't hurt that in person Aldon could be certain that Ed was telling the truth, to the best of his knowledge. Betrayal was always a possibility, and Aldon's gift did not work on the coded missives that his other spies provided. Based on his other information, Aldon guessed that while Voldemort did centralize his forces in Malfoy Manor, there were one or two other holdings that were important, likely the Ministry of Magic and Lestrange Manor.

"Is that everything?" he asked, when Ed seemed to be drawing to a close. As a possible, even likely, double agent, Aldon didn't think that Voldemort would tell Ed anything of use, so it was his observations that would be far more important.

Ed looked down at his now-empty cup of tea. Aldon had refilled him twice already, the pot long since empty, but his voice was dry and tired when he replied. "No," he lied, but Aldon let it go. Aldon doubted there was any way that this could be anything except a lie. Ed likely had a thousand things he wanted or even needed to say, but if he was going back to Voldemort, he couldn't possibly say them.

"Very well. I will walk you to the edge of the grounds," Aldon replied, standing up briskly, clapping twice for one of his house-elves to come and clear away the tea tray.

"Wait—" Ed looked up, his eyes dark and troubled. "Voldemort. I—I need to tell him something, Aldon."

"You gained access to my manor. Don't think I did not see you examining my defences." Aldon sighed, gesturing for Ed to rise and go ahead of him. "And yet, you are welcome to return. Do not ask me for more than that, Edmund."

There was another awkward pause, and Ed stood. "I understand," he replied, his voice heavy and slow.

"Oh!" A voice came from the doorway, the worst possible voice that Aldon could have heard at that instant. He cursed silently—she was to have stayed in the library, and of all worst times for her to appear, this had to be the absolute pinnacle. He scrambled mentally for a solution.

Francesca's eyes flickered between Aldon and Ed, suddenly cautious as she hovered in the door frame. "I was—I was coming to see you. I was worried. You—you've been caught up in here for hours, you missed our meeting."

"Edmund," Aldon said tightly, shooting Francesca a warning look to tell her not to contradict him. "If I may introduce my wife, Francesca Lam Rosier, the Lady Rosier. Francesca, Edmund Rookwood, a close childhood friend. You met him at the Ministry Unity Ball, last year."

"I—I remember." Francesca hesitated, then glided in the room and offered her hand to shake. Ed only bowed over it, and she gave Aldon a confused, wide-eyed look. "I—it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Again. Aldon speaks very highly of you."

Ed shot him a sharp look. "I see that congratulations are in order," he said quietly. "Surely you need not have hidden that from me."

"I think you can understand why I did." Aldon glared at Francesca. "I am just walking Edmund to the edges of the grounds. Remain here, Francesca."

To her credit, whether she was persuaded by his tone of voice or not, she only nodded and walked in to sit in his chair. Aldon gestured, again, for Ed to take the lead out of the manor.

They were halfway across the grounds before Ed mentioned it again. "Your wife is young. Sixth-year, you said?"

"She was here for a visit when Lord Riddle fell," Aldon replied, inventing quickly. Something short and realistic, nothing additional. "Out of concern for me, much like Alice's concern for you, she refused to return to America. We deemed it best that she have the full protection of Rosier Place."

Ed nodded, the movement slow as he limped across the grounds. "She wore no ring. And neither do you."

"I didn't say she was wholly pleased with the situation." Aldon sighed, annoyed. The story didn't make sense, but if Ed knew that she was here, it was best that he believed that Francesca had the full control over Rosier Place that she would have as the Lady Rosier, and which she did not currently have. "It has met with strong disapproval among her family and friends. Should we both survive, we will do everything over again formally."

There was a moment before Ed replied. "Congratulations, once again."

"Thank you." Aldon looked around—no patrols, this time, but another one would be coming through shortly. He could feel the edge of his grounds and he strongly suspected there would be a Ministry official on the other side. It would be best if he stopped here. "One final word, Edmund."

Ed stopped, looking down at him.

"How you feel about Alice, you can rest assured that I feel at least that, if not more, for my wife," Aldon said, and his words were icy in danger. "Strike at her, and I will make you wish for Voldemort's tender mercies. Are we clear?"

"Very much so," Ed replied. "I wouldn't do that, Aldon—not willingly."

"And unwillingly?" Aldon asked, but silence was his only answer. He shook his head. "Go. I'll see you next when Voldemort bids you to visit."

Once Ed was gone, Aldon turned on his heel, checked the wards thoroughly to ensure that there were no runecatches or anything else amiss and, finding nothing, stormed back to his study. Francesca was still lingering there, this time with a fresh tray of tea.

"I told you and everyone at Blake & Associates to stay in the library," he snapped, his eyes flashing as he set his hands on his desk.

"No, you asked Draco and Jukka to keep us in the library without any explanation," Francesca argued, standing up across the table. She had obviously been preparing this response while Aldon had been walking Ed out. "For _hours!_ We talked about this, Aldon. If I'm—if I'm the backup for Rosier Place, I need to know things as they happen. Draco wouldn't tell us anything!"

"There are sometimes situations in which I will not be able to send you forewarning, Francesca!" Aldon straightened, the volume of his voice rising. "We are at _war!_ That was a very sensitive meeting that you walked into, because Edmund is _not_ our ally. Edmund is Voldemort's spy, and I had planned on misleading him to believe that you were in America, since _you, _my dear, are my primary weak point!"

She flinched. "I—I'm sorry," she stuttered, "but was that really one of those situations in which you _couldn't_ send forewarning? You've been distracted and worried for days, and you knew enough to tell Draco who it was and to tell him not to appear, so was there a reason you couldn't forewarn _me?_ If I'm—if something happens to you, I'm to be in charge of Rosier Place, so—"

Much to Aldon's distress, she sniffled, and one hand came up to wipe her eyes. He sighed, feeling the anger seeping out of him, and walked around the desk to tug her into his arms. What was done was done, and he could not take back the fact that Ed now knew conclusively that she was here. There was no real evidence that Voldemort hadn't known of her beforehand either, since Francesca's presence was not a secret and she had travelled between the different safehouses before. He would simply need to adapt.

"If something happens to me, you should be on your way to Queenscove, if not overseas," he murmured softly into her ear. "I'm afraid we'll have to be stricter with your safety, Francesca. No more trips to Muggle London, not even with a dhampir guard, and when Ed is here, you'll need to play the role. It's best he thinks you're the Lady Rosier, with all the power that implies."

"Okay," she said, burying her head in his shoulder with a slight sniff. "I can do that. I am—I am sorry, you know. Even if I think you should have warned me beforehand, or you should have told Draco to explain."

Aldon's lips twitched into a slight smile, though he didn't answer.

XXX

Caelum skulked at the back of the madman's throne room, out of the crazed dictator's direct line of sight. It was not truly supposed to be a throne room. Caelum thought it had once been the Malfoys' formal dining hall, but there was a massive, emerald-encrusted chair at the head of the table, so he had no qualms about calling it what it was: a throne room.

It had been such even when Riddle had been in charge. His mother had been very put out about the fact that the Lord Malfoy could afford the insane extravagance as some sort of absurd gift for their previous, less crazed but apparently still grandiose leader, Lord Riddle, and here the ridiculous showboat had sat for years. Perhaps Riddle had seen it all as a joke, but His Imperial Highness did not.

Maybe His Imperial Highness wasn't strictly accurate, though. Caelum happened to like the description, because that was how the man acted, but of course the official line was that there was no more nobility. No nobility, no princes and no kings, so that left the nutter as simply… the First Citizen. Just like Augustus Caesar.

If Caelum were ever caught thinking these thoughts, he would be dead. But it was these thoughts that kept him sane, so as long as he was out of Voldemort's direct eyesight, he kept thinking them. Death, or madness?

He had had a lifetime to consider this question, and Caelum would pick death every single time. He was lucky that Voldemort, for the most part, didn't care to keep him too close—the supposed life debt he owed to the Lord Rosier coming in useful, there. Caelum was nowhere near as powerful as most of the psychopath's followers assumed. While Voldemort enjoyed keeping him on hand to enforce discipline, Caelum followed orders only. He was not an advisor, he provided no input in any plans, and Voldemort kept him at a distance when he was not needed, a fact for which Caelum was grateful.

Caelum spent as much time as possible outside of Voldemort's direct view—he had his lab at the Lestrange Manor, and even when Voldemort required his presence at Malfoy Manor, he had found that the ancient, subpar Malfoy Potions Lab was equally good for avoiding people. He was only rustled out if Voldemort needed a torturer, and one with a finer hand and more control than any of his others. Maybe Caelum didn't inspire the same sort of robe-wetting fear that his mother did, but he had developed a reputation of his own.

He would have given much to be mouldering away in any Potions lab, rather than waiting here holding Alesana Rookwood under his wand.

He hadn't hurt her. Not yet—His Majesty the Psychopath had said he wanted her under arrest at Lestrange Manor, and that didn't include hurting her. So, he had simply locked her into one of the moldy, damp guest suites in his childhood home, told the Dementors to watch her door and the house-elves to feed her, and promptly forgotten about her. But with her husband paying a visit to Rosier Place today, First Citizen Crackpot wanted her close to hand. And Caelum, her gaoler, was forced to wait attendance on First Lunatic with her. For hours.

It was mid-afternoon by the time that Edmund Rookwood limped into the hall, and he knew his reprieve was over.

He looked around the room, looking for something, anything, to trigger his emotions. His favoured target, his mother, was nowhere to be seen, nor were his uncles; more recently, the Ice Bitch had been a good substitute, but she hadn't made an appearance that day. Instead, he fixated on Edmund Rookwood. The elder Rookwood had been his godfather; Edmund Rookwood was therefore close enough to him that Caelum had once asked him to be his second for a duel. Not that Rookwood had been of any use whatsoever there, which really ought to have been a forewarning. All Rookwood had done was glare at him, and let his mother dictate his terms. Completely, utterly useless.

He glanced down at Alesana Rookwood, still bound under his wand, and felt his lip curl in disgust. He hadn't locked her very strongly in Lestrange Manor, not truly. He had only used four layers of standard Slavic lock-charms, and he had heard that she had worked for a runic magazine for a year or so before her marriage. She could have broken them, had she tried, even without a wand. And yet, she had not even attempted to escape her bonds, just like she and Edmund had never attempted to run from Malfoy Manor the four long months before Voldemort remembered they existed and turned his eye on them.

They should have known. They both should have known that there was nothing for them here, and that any reprieve from Voldemort was only temporary considering their longstanding relationship with Aldon Rosier. They were idiots to have stayed, and what for? The comfort of Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort flitting in and out at his leisure and where they only managed to stay out of his sight because he had forgotten about them? Or was it simply fear that his mother's act with Lady Zabini, who admittedly was now a drooling vegetable, might be repeated on one of them?

They were either stupid, or they were cowards, and Caelum grabbed onto that thought, that feeling, and held onto it. Stupid, or cowards, and he hated them, and they deserved whatever Voldemort told him to do to them. _Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob._

Caelum Lestrange was hate. He was hate, and he was potions, and he was anger and rage and a need for revenge. He hated everything and everyone, and there was nothing in him at all except overwhelming hate. Nothing at all.

"Rookwood," Voldemort said, his voice amused. "How was your visit to the Rosiers?"

"Aldon allowed me entry," Rookwood replied, his face blank, though he glanced over at his wife, being held under Caelum's wand. "We… talked."

Caelum felt his lip curl again in disgust. Rookwood would simply hand everything over, without question, because Caelum had his wife under his wand. How weak. Caelum hated weakness. _Khuyevo_.

Voldemort laughed, high-pitched enough to be ridiculous if it weren't him. "And you told him everything that you knew, isn't that right?"

"Exactly as I was instructed."

"What did you receive in return?"

Edmund hesitated.

Voldemort looked at Caelum.

Caelum needed no further instructions. He pointed his wand at Alesana, muttered a curse, and broke a finger.

She screamed, and Rookwood talked. He was so simple, it was disgusting.

"Rosier Place has no physical defences that I could see. I believe that Aldon has extensive magical protections on his property, but I do not know what any of them are—I could feel their power, but I am not versed in this area of magic. He has soldiers defending his manor, but none that I recognized. His soldiers are likely from abroad, and with most of the enemy alliance being Light faction, I believe most of his soldiers are likely from abroad. They may be paid mercenaries. I didn't see anything else about them, Aldon kept me from them and from the others in his manor."

"Sensible of him." The sound of Alesana's breathing was loud in the room, and Caelum rolled his eyes. It was just a finger. She acted as if she had never been tortured before. Utterly pathetic, _k pizde rukav_.

"That is everything. He invited me to return." Rookwood looked away, a sure sign of guilt. _Blyat,_ he was the worst liar that Caelum had ever seen. What an absolute, idiotic fool.

"That isn't everything." Voldemort smiled, and there was nothing friendly or inviting about it. "Caelum."

Caelum broke a second finger, and Alesana's cry split the air. Then, after a moment of silence, he broke a third. And a fourth.

"Aldon married," Rookwood said hastily. "An American Muggleborn girl. Rosier Place is magically at full strength, with both a Lord and Lady in residence. I know little about her."

"But?" Voldemort drew the word out, but Caelum didn't need to break a fifth finger before Edmund replied.

"She's a magical theorist of some kind, I believe," Edmund spat out, his own voice betraying his disgust at himself. "Aldon has always been attracted to magical theory, and she was a part of the Triwizard Team for the American Institute of Magic that carried into the games a new magical technique. Aldon was interested in it even before meeting her in person. I believe that she is the person behind the invention, which created a _Fortis_ shield in less time and with less magic than a wand. With her as the Lady Rosier, we might expect more of her new magical technique against our forces."

Voldemort leaned forward, and Caelum could see that Rookwood had hit paydirt—he and his wife would be leaving without any further injury, tonight. Voldemort was a stupid _pizda vonchukaya_, to be so easily predicted. He hated it, he hated Voldemort, he hated Rookwood, he hated everything and everyone and he hated that Voldemort now would not give him an outlet to channel his anger and his hate. Not today.

"What more do you know?" Voldemort pressed, and Rookwood looked away.

"Magical theory is not my strength," he murmured. "I know nothing further."

"Then, I suppose you ought to learn." Voldemort looked over at Caelum. "Lestrange, return them to your manor. Do not let Bella play with them. I have other plans, but I would like more information about this new magical technique."

"Comforts?" Caelum asked, cold and angry, casting a levitation spell on Alesana. He didn't bother being gentle about it, and she gasped as the movement shook her injured hand. "Should they have any?"

Voldemort shrugged. "I care not. Do as you will, but ensure that Rookwood has whatever magical theory books he needs. You may unleash Bella on them if they escape, but only then."

"As you command." Caelum nodded, tugging Alesana behind him. Neither of the Rookwoods had wands, and he fully expected Edmund Rookwood to follow, as indeed he did.

They were at Lestrange Manor, right as Caelum was directing them into a guest suite, before Rookwood spoke to him. It was only one word.

"Lestrange…" he said, and it was possibly the worst thing that he could have said at that instant. Caelum was hate, and if there was one thing that topped his list of hates, it was his family. He was not a Lestrange, he did not want to be a Lestrange, and he was not here of his own free will. He could feel Rookwood about to beg him for mercy, and he hated it. He absolutely hated it. He was not their friend. He was no one's friend.

He spat on him. "_Yebalnik zakroy_. Be glad that I'm not handing you to my mother and that I will feed you, but I will do no more. I'll have all of the magical theory books in our library transported to you tomorrow."

He slammed the door behind them, locked it with the same four standard Slavic lock-charms, and stalked off to his Potions lab. Rosier, he was sure, would enjoy knowing how easily his friend had turned on him.

XXX

Aunt Lily had left at the beginning of January, Addy with her, on a Muggle flight bound for New York City. With her had gone the light feeling that Archie had carried with him throughout the holidays. It wasn't only him—Uncle James had turned more serious, Harry had gone practically silent, and even Dad's smile had become rarer these days.

Who knew that wars would have so much _paperwork?_ Their kitchen table had permanently been taken over by papers: missives from the other safehouses and allies, a pile of letters from Geneva, the reports that he and Dad tried to put together for other people containing vital _need-to-know_ information. One end of the table was stacked with the past two weeks of the _Daily Prophet_, which he and Dad read cover to cover every day in an effort to see where Voldemort was going.

_Someone_ had to do it. Their spies didn't tend to report on the content that was actually going into the newspaper, since they assumed everyone would read it, and most people at the Prophet only knew the area they worked in anyway. When they reported, they tended to try for forewarning of the big articles only, or they shared news from the ground about who was talking to whom, odd things they had seen their editors and co-workers doing, or the movements of Voldemort's known followers. But there were things that they could put together from the daily papers, signals they could use to guess a direction that the Ministry would go. It just required a lot of reading and analysis, and it was better for someone like Archie and Dad to handle it for everyone so that the others could focus on what they did best. And just one hour watching Hermione deal with refugee logistics was enough for Archie to know how much of a muck he would make of that.

Voldemort's controls were tightening. There was already a curfew, and most shops had been closed except for limited hours. Rather than simple registration, people were now required to carry new Ministry-issued identification cards with them when they left their homes, and they could be stopped and required to show their identification at no provocation at all. The cards carried locator charms for the Ministry to track people's movements, and whole neighbourhoods had been placed under Anti-Apparition Wards so no one could get in or out without crossing an identification checkpoint. Aldon had someone in their research and development unit investigating the locator charms and devising a false trail spell to feed the cards without raising any suspicions.

According to Dumbledore, about a third of students had not come back to school after the winter holidays, and the missing children were mostly from families that had aligned themselves with Voldemort. Archie had sat in a meeting with Uncle James, Moody, Dad and Dumbledore himself, in which they had discussed the risk that Hogwarts had become a target—while Dumbledore had never publicly declared himself one way or the other, it had to be clear from his past allegiances and the fact that that Hogwarts was in Scotland that he was, and indeed he had to be, sympathetic to the alliance. Before the holidays, there are been enough of Lord Riddle's former supporters that Voldemort almost certainly wouldn't strike at the school, but now…

They couldn't be sure, so a team of their best former Aurors, led by Moody and with the support of Lord Dumbledore and the Clans, descended on Hogwarts on the first weekend of term and started installing a new set of defensive wards. Hogwarts was well-warded to begin with, the equivalent of any noble manor, but when it came to children the remaining parents needed reassurance.

The Ministry had carried out more raids. They hadn't touched the noble houses yet, though Voldemort had finally managed to shove through the laws repealing noble privilege and dispensing with most of the due process requirements of criminal law. Half of the alliance had been convicted _in absentia_ by the courts of sedition, advocating for sedition, fomenting sedition, treason, conspiracy to commit treason, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, murder, attempted murder, and about three dozen other offences. The problem, according to Dad, was that whatever the law said, noble Lords were bound to their lands in a way that posed a problem to Voldemort regardless of the laws. A noble Lord was their land, and taking a Lord on their lands required more than the usual Auror action. Thus far, Voldemort had primarily struck at their non-noble collaborators, including the Tonks, the Jones, the Whitefords, and the Flynns, as well as at a number of unassociated families who simply had the misfortune be caught in the crossfire.

The Scots were still discontent. With the Welsh gone, mostly dead, and Ireland independent, more and more of them were inclined to an open strike for their own independence. Uncle James didn't like it, and Archie didn't think Lina liked it anymore than he did, but he knew that they were both preparing for a Clan decision to strike for independence. There were problems—as Lina had said, there were far more problems with Scottish independence than with the Irish independence, beginning with the land border and continuing to the high number of locations within Wizarding Scotland that were shared with those supportive the former Ministry, if not the current one.

Cameron said that at least four of the Clans were in support of a strike for independence, modelled exactly after the Irish model. They would take the Ministry outposts in the outer, northern, regions first: Shetland, the Orkneys, the Hebrides, Skye, and then sweep from the Highlands down, leaving Edinburgh and Hogsmeade, the two centres of Ministry power in Scotland, for last. Of the outstanding Clans, the MacMillans and the McKinnons were still considering, while two, the MacLeods and the MacLaggens, remained opposed.

They were all waiting for the decision of the Clanmeet, at the end of the month. Dad and Archie planned on being there to watch the deliberations, while Uncle James, Lina and Moody were talking through all possible scenarios—whether the Scots split or not, and what their position should be if the Scots did in fact choose to split from Britain. If they did, the current plan was to support independence and position their forces to guard against a retaliatory strike; if they didn't, they planned on a series of small-scale strikes to secure the public Portkey Hubs at Heathrow and Edinburgh and the Wizarding ports at Weymouth, Southwold, and Holy Island to isolate Voldemort's ranks even further from international supply routes and outside assistance. Success there would build troop morale and demoralize the enemy, which they hoped they could build to larger victories later.

Archie, aside from paging through half the _Daily Prophet _each morning until he was ready to scream in rage and frustration, had taken to visiting each of their safehouses—about a dozen within England, and another handful within in Scotland. Morale, briefly boosted over the holidays, was back down and it was good for him to walk among their troops, talking to everyone and reassuring them where he could.

He met people. He learned names, and he shook hands, and he smiled and laughed and regaled everyone with highly embellished stories from the other safehouses. He told everyone about how Neal's sentient castle loved to switch doors on people, hoping to put people in compromising positions; he talked about the ingenious prank products the Weasley Twins had developed to trick their Ministry surveillants. He regaled everyone with stories about how Harry and Leo were heroically tricking the Ministry and their Aurors on their supply runs and occasional rescue missions in Diagon Alley and Craftsmen's Alley, which Harry always said were "embellished to the point of untruth, if not completely fabricated." But this was about troop morale, so Archie couldn't say he cared. People needed to believe that they could win, and if that meant making Harry ten feet tall and sassy, complete with parting pot-shots every time they were _almost _caught, that was what it meant.

There was hope, he said. They were in a much better position now than they were before the holidays, and soon Aunt Lily's efforts would come to fruition, too. They'd have money coming in for supplies and more international support, and they were ready now for whatever came. It was better to stand together against tyranny than to bow down out of fear, and things were turning. Good would triumph over evil, freedom and love over authoritarianism and fear, and it was only matter of time before their smaller successes turned into bigger ones, before the sacrifices they and so many other people had made started paying off.

He just hoped, every time he spun a new story, that his words would start coming true. And fast.

XXX

Draco was sorting and decoding messages, as was his usual duty first thing in the morning. Rosier had given him most of the spies in the Ministry and other related enterprises, code-names only, so that he could focus on the information coming from the handful of spies directly in Voldemort's camp, counter-intelligence policies and procedures, and the defence of Rosier Place itself.

Having work was good. It was far better than staying in his rooms, staring at his wall of useless information. For, most of it was indeed useless; information seemed to change every few days, and his wall was, while still good in its basics, hopelessly out of date. The blood ties that so many noble families used to rely upon were a poorer predictor of alliances than he might have guessed, while chosen connections tended to do better. The work was useful, and it was interesting, and it gave him something to do.

Things to do meant that he could push his more disconcerting thoughts farther away. Draco was unequivocally opposed to Voldemort and his government, there was no question of that, because Voldemort had killed his father and held Pansy captive and so many other things. But there were days when there were other thoughts that bothered him.

Just as Rosier had said, Voldemort was closer to Draco's own supposed beliefs than Rosier and his alliance. Like Lord Riddle, Voldemort was a pureblood supremacist. Like Lord Riddle, he valued Wizarding British culture, and he would push to ensure that their traditions were protected, preserved, and continued. Like Lord Riddle, he fought against the influence of the other Wizarding nations, as represented by the ICW. On beliefs only, the only area in which Voldemort truly differed from Lord Riddle, and therefore Draco, was on the role of the nobility and noble privilege.

He ignored it by arguing that Voldemort was different in other ways. He was violent, and Draco knew well enough that discipline was enforced in Voldemort's ranks by violence. Lord Riddle had never been so heavy-handed, had never used his substantial magical power so bluntly—other than when he had nearly killed Draco in his first year through the Sleeping Sickness, that was. But that had been an accident, and Lord Riddle and his father had never meant for things to spin so wildly out of control.

The excuse sounded weak even to him.

It was easier for Draco to see it as a simple black and white: Voldemort was bad, evil, and Lord Riddle had been good. But then he ran into other questions. What was _Bridge _and the alliance, then? Were they also evil, and was he therefore evil by working on their side? _Bridge_ and their allies wanted to and were destroying Wizarding Britain as Draco had known it, while Voldemort was trying to protect at least a version of the traditions and culture that Draco loved, and that his father and Lord Riddle had worked so hard to preserve. Where did that leave him? What did it make him, that he was now at least nominally standing with the alliance, rather than with the people among whom he had been raised and who would protect the things that he valued and found important?

There was the issue of pureblood supremacy, too. Draco had to believe pureblood supremacy, but there were counter-examples everywhere he looked. There was Harry, but even if Harry was an exception, there was Rosier. And even if both Harry and Rosier were exceptions, there was now Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, who had gone to Hogwarts with them as a Ravenclaw, graduated in good standing, and was one of the most terrifying wizards and half-vampires they had. And if he, too, was an exception, there were the Muggleborns and halfbloods who formed the research division, Blake & Associates, who regularly argued about magic far beyond the level that Draco could understand. He could have attributed it to the fact that he hadn't completed school, but he had always been taught that the educations provided abroad, mixed with Muggleborns and halfbloods, were subpar—and if that were true, he should have at least been able to understand at least some of what they said, even if not all of it.

More importantly, however, the research division had made something. They had invented something beyond what Voldemort had, a new channelling method that they called the _Assistive Casting Device_, and as Muggleborns and halfbloods they shouldn't have been able to make anything like it. They shouldn't have had enough understanding of magic to do it, because they were at least half Muggle.

He hated these thoughts. He hated how they made him feel, discombobulated and lost, and he hated feeling like his father, the giant of his childhood, might have been _wrong. _

Working helped. The tedious work of decoding messages from their spies from book code required too much focus and concentration to let his mind wander.

One message, caught between two other scraps of parchment, caught his eye. It wasn't in code. He frowned, tugged it out and his breath caught.

_BLOWN_, it said. One word, rather than a number combination. He checked it over carefully—there was no easier way to try to fool intelligence than to send in false information, so every informant had a set of symbols and signs that they used to show that the message was genuine. The signs were unique for each informant, so he turned the parchment over.

Ragged edge on the right, and there were four taps of a quill dotting the top, as if the person was tapping off excess ink, as well as a line. There was also a faint impression on the bottom left, an arc with three parallel lines crossing it.

Robin. It was genuine enough, and that was bad. Draco headed for the door.

He didn't care what Rosier was up to at the moment because this was more important. Robin was their lead Department of Justice informant who, aside from passing information, also regularly misplaced paperwork, built in administrative delays, and caused fights over minor processes and procedures that inevitably ended up eating weeks of time. Robin had been, conveniently, both trusted and respected enough for access to sensitive information, but also low enough in the hierarchy that they were undetected when they made certain documents disappear. They were a huge loss—there was only one more informant in the Department of Justice, Eagle, but Eagle was too highly placed to mimic routine administrative incompetence.

"Rosier," he said, slamming the door to Rosier's study open. Rosier was deep in discussion with Willoughby, or Dragić, the head of the half-vampire command stationed at their safehouse. "Robin was blown."

Rosier's head snapped up, and Draco felt the current of panic and worry even if Rosier's face remained unruffled. "Let me see," Rosier demanded, holding his hand out for the scrap of parchment, which Draco handed over with no hesitation.

Rosier held it up to the light, checking for the same marks and indentations that Draco had already confirmed were there. He frowned, tilting his head thoughtfully, then set the note down with a sigh, and Draco felt his panic dissipate, replaced only by sharp concern. "The fact that she managed to get this message out is a good thing. She's safe. You'll need to go debrief with her—she's most likely gone to ground at Clan Cameron. If not there, check Queenscove."

"Clan Cameron?"

"Clan Cameron," Rosier confirmed with a nod. "She was a Clan Cameron Ministry informant before she became our informant, and her loyalties are still there. I don't expect that she will have much information to provide, because she was used more for sabotage and delay, but we need to debrief her. I have a meeting with one of the problematic Houses today, so I can't go, and this is urgent."

_Problematic _was Rosier's attempt at a delicate description of the noble Houses that sheltered an identified Ministry or Voldemort informant. As far as Draco had put it together, both Houses were, first, deeply offended that Rosier had marked one of their family members as an informant, and second, unhappy about the new counter-intelligence measures that they were being required to adopt.

"Who is Robin?" Draco asked, drawing his words out slightly. "If I don't know who she is, I can hardly ask for her, can I?"

Rosier gave a helpless sort of shrug. "Sealing Curse."

Draco frowned at him. "Try. Clues, then."

Rosier shook his head, reaching for a notebook that he flipped open to a page. A quick wave of his wand obscured most of the texted, and when he held it up, Draco could only read one name, and he frowned.

"Penelope Clearwater? The Ministry prosecutor?"

"A halfblood. Her allegiance—Clan Cameron," Rosier said, before he started coughing. Whatever the Sealing Curse was, it had to be powerful, since Rosier not only could not say the words, he was struggling around the other identifiers as well. Dragić beside him conjured a glass, filled it with water, and handed it to him. Rosier took a long drink, and when he continued, his voice was dry. "Apparently, clan fealty oaths are how Scottish halfbloods have gone to Hogwarts since the halfblood discrimination policy was put into place."

"I—" Draco took a steadying breath, pushing away the sudden reality that he had probably gone to school with many, many more halfbloods than he thought he had. "Clan Cameron," he confirmed, his voice equally dry. ''I'll be on my way. How, er—how do I use the Portkey Hub?"

Aldon blinked, rubbing his neck where Draco assumed that his Sealing Curse had tried to choke him, then put his glass of water down, flipped the scrap of paper with Clearwater's note on it, picked up a pen and drew a symbol. "This is the symbol for Clan Cameron. Inside the Hub, there is a wooden panel—it is unmarked, but looks a little out of place. Trace the symbol on the panel and imbue it with magic to send the transit request. It'll take a few minutes for someone on their side to authorize the transit."

Draco nodded, slightly embarrassed, and walked out. It wasn't as if Portkey Hubs were entirely new to him, because his parents had taken him to Paris several times by Portkey Hub, but he had never been the one operating the transit.

The Rosier Portkey Hub was in the central, common area, lying between the guest wing where Draco and most of Rosier's guests stayed and the family quarters. Based on the faded, forest-green wallpaper, criss-crossed by a cream diamond pattern, Draco guessed that it had been a reception room or parlour, set near the main doors. The wooden panel that Rosier spoke about took moment for him to find, hidden as it was behind a gauzy cream-coloured drape, but it was in easy reach of the humming silver wire ring. He grabbed hold of the ring and traced the symbol for Clan Cameron on the panel.

Pressure built, pressing in on his ears and chest and holding for a long, long minute, before it popped and Draco found himself in a freezing cold, pitch-black icebox. He swore, fumbling for his wand, stamping slightly as he shivered, before he managed to stutter out the _Lumos_ Charm.

His wandlight revealed a stone room, clearly unheated. He swore again, stomping over to the wooden door set in one wall, a simple door that was curved at the top and clearly old. He pushed his way out, finding himself in a snow-covered courtyard. He looked around, spotting walls and a main keep. Clan Cameron, it seemed, still used their old castle fortifications. Their Portkey Hub was embedded in the walls—a former gatehouse or guard's shelter, Draco guessed.

He hurried across the courtyard, wrapping his arms over his chest for warmth. He hadn't anticipated needing to go outside, so he hadn't dressed for it. He cursed—couldn't Rosier have warned him to grab a cloak?

A man slipped out the front doors of the main building—middle-aged, forty if Draco had to guess, with red-blond hair shorn close to his head. He was tall and thin, and his dark eyes were suspicious as he looked at Draco. The man blocked the doors, and Draco guessed that his wand, while still holstered, would very quickly be out if Draco made any unusual moves.

"Transit from Rosier Place," the man said, his wariness hitting Draco like a cool breeze. "What's this about?"

"Clearwater," Draco replied, his teeth chattering a little despite his best efforts. Curse the man, but despite his lack of cloak, he seemed not to notice the temperature. "I'm here from Rosier. We got her message, and need to debrief her."

The man relaxed slightly, but his eyes were still wary. "You'll have to wait a bit, I'm afraid," he said, opening the door to let Draco in. The wash of warm air slapping him in the face was very welcoming, and Draco followed him gratefully. "She only got here a couple hours ago herself. She's having a kip—can you wait?"

Draco hesitated. He needed to debrief her, but a lot depended on what information she was carrying. If she didn't have anything critical or time-dependent, he would feel awful for waking her, but then again, he wouldn't know if she was until he debriefed her.

"Not for long," he said, apologetic. "I have orders. If I can just debrief her, I'd be happy to take my leave, and she can sleep as long as she needs."

The man sighed, leading him to a very outdated parlour, decorated in red quartered in green. It was a very Christmas-y sort of plaid, which Draco felt was a little gauche, but the colours did bring warmth to the chamber. There was a wool throw tossed over the back of his chair, which Draco surreptitiously pulled to drape over his lap. The man flicked out his wand, and a few waves had a tray of coffee and tea floating down the hallway onto the table. The breakfast room couldn't be very far away.

"Stay here. I'll fetch her," the man said, and Draco nodded in agreement. There was no fire in the room, but there was a grate with dry wood, so he pulled his wand out again and started one. Hopefully, by the time Clearwater appeared, the room would be warm enough for comfort.

He had to wait nearly thirty minutes before Clearwater walked into the room, in obviously borrowed Muggle clothing two sizes too large for her. Her sweater, a dark green, was knitted with large, looping cables, and she had pulled on a pair of thick, black stockings to wear under a clan red-and-green kilted skirt.

She looked exhausted. There were deep bags under her eyes, and her skin had the pale, translucent quality of someone who had recently been very sick. Her hair was lank, hanging around her face, and her lower lip had a red mark suggesting that she had gnawed on it for some time. Despite her appearance, her blue eyes were sharp. Draco could feel her emotions, ricocheting around the small chamber—bone-deep exhaustion and relief, but an overlying sense of paranoia and wariness.

"Draco Malfoy, right?" she asked, her voice slightly rough—she had just awoken, and probably from a deep sleep, too.

"Yes," he replied, leaning forward and pushing the tray of coffee and tea towards her. "Rosier sent me to debrief you."

"Why you?"

"Rosier is busy—counter-intelligence meeting."

"No, not that." She studied him, her eyebrows pinching together in a frown, and the sense of suspicion in the air heightened. "Why you_?_ Draco Malfoy, son of the former Lord Malfoy, who stood as Lord Riddle's second-in-command—I wouldn't have expected that _you_ would be Rosier's right hand."

"Why not?" Draco frowned back at her. "Voldemort killed my father. And he wants to kill me, and he has my fiancé."

"Because this isn't your fight." She paused, blue eyes looking upwards as she thought. "That was badly phrased. Because you have nothing to gain from this, Malfoy."

"What do you mean?"

Clearwater shrugged, the movement made larger by the looseness of her sweater. "Look, Malfoy. Everyone else with the alliance has something they want, something they can gain out of the war. The Clans want independence. Halfbloods and Muggleborns, documented or not, want equality; the British International Association and, by extension, the British Students Association, want the option for their members to come home and live in Britain without being second-class. Non-nobles living here want a voice in governance. You don't have anything to gain from the war, and as far as I can see it, you have more to lose with us than you would keep if Voldemort wins. If Voldemort wins, you lose your noble status, but you keep everything else. Even losing noble status—that doesn't seem to have made a difference for most of the nobles on his side."

"And he will certainly let me join him," Draco replied, his voice biting in sarcasm. "You have seen the warrants for my arrest, haven't you? Conspiracy, treason, fraud..."

"I issued them," Clearwater confirmed, leaning back in her seat to stare at him. "Which is how I know that they aren't Voldemort's priority right now, and if someone in the right spot put pressure on him, he would probably pardon you. You _were_ underage at the time of the claimed offences. I'm not asking why you don't support Voldemort, I'm asking why you're supporting a side that is opposed to most of the things that your family, and by extension, you, have always supported. There are other options. You could have a friend or associate plead your case before Voldemort and join him. Or, if you didn't want that, you could escape abroad."

"Without Pansy, my fiancé?" Draco scowled, refusing to even contemplate joining Voldemort. Voldemort had killed his father, and even when he did think of betraying Rosier's alliance, he primarily thought about using what he knew to buy Pansy's freedom and going abroad. Blood before honour, and he would die before swearing loyalty to the monster that had ruined his family.

"Everything I have heard suggests that your former fiancé is perfectly happy where she is," Clearwater retorted, and Draco grimaced. "Are you with us for your own personal vengeance, then? Because I'd say good riddance for your father, and so would most of the alliance. Why should I trust you with this debrief? Why shouldn't I demand Rosier himself?"

"What makes Rosier so different?" Draco straightened, offended, fighting to feel his own emotions though the heavy veil of suspicion and wariness that coated him. "Rosier was raised in the same circles I was, and his family stood at Lord Riddle's side as much as mine did. And Rosier trusts me. He sent me, didn't he?"

"Rosier's different because he's a halfblood," Clearwater replied flatly, holding out her hand and pulling up her sleeve to show him. A narrow, jagged scar ran across her forearm—a fealty oath, Draco recognized, medieval and extreme. "As am I. Rosier's different because a year ago, he stood in front of Wizarding Britain and channeled Justice and got disowned for it. He has something to gain in the world we're trying to make. Even if we win, Malfoy, you personally are only going to lose. You'll have your life, if you don't die in the war itself, but you'll lose most of everything else. So, why are you here, Malfoy? Why aren't you hiding, or overseas, or doing any number of other things that you could be doing?"

"Rosier trusts me," Draco repeated, still scowling. He was here for Pansy, and Pansy only, but there was no reason for him to tell Clearwater that. He had his orders, and that should be good enough. "He sent me to debrief you."

"Knowing Rosier, he also needed help, and you were someone nearby that he could keep a close eye on," Clearwater said, shaking her head, and Draco felt a mild sort of disapproval radiating off her. "It was also probably comforting to him that you were raised in the same circles, with the same background, and he knew your connections. He's the Truth-Speaker, so he can ascertain for himself your loyalty from moment to moment, but I can't, and the information I have is sensitive. I don't trust you, Malfoy, and I don't want my information disappearing, understand?"

"It won't," Draco snapped. "Rosier sent me, and—"

"You don't even like Rosier, or you'd call him by name."

"Neither do you." Draco glared at her.

"I don't know Rosier personally, so I can't call him by name." Clearwater tossed a lank of blond hair over her shoulder as she leaned forward to pour herself some tea. "You don't like Rosier. You have nothing really to gain from the alliance other than your personal revenge. I bet you even still believe in pureblood supremacy, don't you? Pureblood supremacy, and noble privilege, and the whole lot of it. With your father being who he was, it would be hard for you to believe differently."

"My best friend is a halfblood. I don't—" He stopped, unsure of what he really wanted to say. "How could I?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in thought. "You don't believe in pureblood supremacy?"

"I—I don't—" He paused again, looking away into the fire, picking his words carefully. Clearwater wanted a fight with him, and he wanted no part of it. "I'm just here to debrief you, Clearwater. Not to discuss my personal beliefs."

His words came out slow, bland, and even, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Defend pureblood supremacy to me, then."

"Defend—" Draco sucked in another breath. "You know the arguments, Clearwater. You made them, in the Arcturus Rigel Black trial. I don't need to defend them to you."

"Humour me."

Draco glared at her, but she wasn't looking at him, and he could feel the stubbornness drifting in the air. She wasn't going to talk. She wasn't going to allow herself to be debriefed until he answered, and it was nothing she didn't already know, so fine. He would make the arguments, and they'd move on to the debrief.

"Halfbloods and Muggleborns are different from purebloods," he spat out, quicker than he thought he would. "They have less control over their magic, and they pose a danger to purebloods. It wouldn't be fair to school halfbloods and Muggleborns with purebloods, because they wouldn't be able to keep up. Halfbloods and Muggleborns also don't understand wizarding culture. I'm not saying they're _bad_. Far from it—the nature of magic isn't their fault. They just need a couple generations to develop control over their magic and assimilate into proper Wizarding culture."

It all sounded completely preposterous.

He didn't know why that was the case—these were the beliefs he had, these were the lines he had been taught, and it was nothing very different than what he thought normally. He could even swear that he had said these exact things to Harry, not even that long ago. Why was it that these arguments sounded so completely ridiculous said out loud, rather than kept in his head? Why was it that they sounded so awful _now, _when it hadn't sounded so even a few months ago?

Just a few months ago, these words had sounded so reasonable. Right now, he was cringing.

He had said these words to _Harry_, one of his best friends, and a halfblood. He had told her that she was different, that she had less control over her magic, and that she was dangerous to others. He had said that she wouldn't be able to keep up at school, which was clearly wrong, and that she couldn't understand wizarding culture, when she had successfully mimicked being a pureblood for four years among the highest echelons of society. Or, he hadn't said this about _her_, he had only said it about everyone who shared her blood-status, because she, too, was a halfblood.

And now he was saying it to Penelope Clearwater, a halfblood, a Ravenclaw, and the former Hogwarts Head Girl. Penelope Clearwater, who maybe wasn't magically exceptional the way that Harry was, but had obviously done well enough to be appointed Prefect, then Head Girl. He felt like an absolute heel as he allowed his voice to trail away, and he changed tactics.

"My father—the Lord Riddle and my father were trying to protect our Wizarding culture," he argued instead, and his voice sounded plaintive even to him. "They wouldn't have expended that much effort passing the laws unless it was the right thing to do. I'm sure there's a reason, I just—I'm not explaining it well enough. My father is—was—a good person, Clearwater."

Clearwater studied him for a moment, then lifted her cup of tea to her mouth, and he felt her relax from suspicion and wariness to plain tiredness. "If you learn anything as a lawyer, Malfoy, it's that people are complicated. A person can be a good husband and father while passing bad laws, being a good person doesn't mean that everything one does is always necessarily good, and good people can do bad things. Tell Rosier I want him to come in person, next time."

Draco sighed in relief, pushing her words to the back of his mind. He didn't want to think about it now. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about it ever, but he knew he probably would. He probably had no choice but to think about it, and he thought he owed it to someone—Harry, maybe—to think about it. "The debrief?"

"I got blown." Clearwater relaxed, leaning back in her chair, but Draco still felt an echo of intense fear and desperation sweep the room—Clearwater's feelings as she remembered what had happened. "I wasn't careful enough—I don't know what set them off exactly, but one of the judges I'm close with tipped me off on the arrest warrant before the Aurors could catch me. I stupidly thought I had time to go home to get a few things, but I was halfway through packing when they stormed in. I escaped out the window with just my identification and stashed money, and I Apparated in mid-air to an alley in Muggle London. Then I grabbed a train north to Glasgow. I couldn't sleep at all, was too scared about being caught, but I got to Clan Boyd all right and they let me use their Portkey Hub to get to my home clan."

"Did anyone follow you?" Draco asked, leaning forward.

"Not that I saw—I think I lost them by heading into Muggle London." Clearwater shook her head. "I had a nasty fall onto pavement, but I don't think anyone saw me. But that's not the important news."

"What's the important news?"

"The excessive force warrants are being issued." Clearwater's mouth formed a thin line. "This week, maybe next, for Rosier Place, Potter Place, and Queenscove. There's one for Grimmauld Place in the works, and for the Shacklebolts and the Shafiqs. I delayed them as much as I could—I dawdled on them, insisted that they get convictions on everyone and pushed everything through a full trial, then I wasted time writing four separate memoranda on obscure points of law about mostly imaginary problems getting the warrants. I think I was a little too obvious on the last two, but I was running out of ideas to delay them. Once the excessive force warrants are issued, I would guess a week for McNabb and Dawlish to mobilize, so you can expect a strike in probably two to three weeks."

Draco let out a long, slow breath, then he stood up. "Just one, or all three at once, do you know? Do they have the troops for a three-pronged strike?"

Clearwater shook her head again. "I don't know. My main role was to find a way to do what Voldemort wanted to do legally—I don't know anything about their troop sizes or actual plans. Sorry."

"No—it's fine." Draco hesitated, then reached out to touch her shoulder, fighting a bizarre, instinctual urge to flinch away. He had touched Harry, and she was a halfblood. He had touched Rosier, and he was a halfblood. Clearwater was no different. He forced himself to rest a hand on her shoulder, reassuring. "Thank you for the information. I need to get back to Rosier Place to warn the Lord Rosier, and we will pass the word onto everyone else. Please—get some sleep. I'm sure we will be in touch with you soon."

XXX

_ANs: A lot of note this time for everyone! First off, special thanks to Tolya on this chapter, because the last time I tried to incorporate Russian swearing, he said "that is not how Russian swearing works", and now I have a Magic List of all the Russian vulgar language! Requests for translations must be made to Tolya directly, at the coordinates to be listed below. Further thanks, as per usual, to beta reader meek_bookworm, who works very very hard to keep things on track!_

_For those that want to discuss the fic between updates, lovelyingreen set up a Discord server! To join, because ffn is weird, you'll need to copy and paste this link into your own Discord with some amendments: __https COLON SLASH SLASH discord DOT gg SLASH gXAvXRY, and insert the proper punctuation. Come join us-or come ask Tolya about those Russian swears!_

_Finally, rev arc is in the tagset for 2 exchanges on Archive Of Our Own, being Fic In The Box 2020 and the second Rigel Black Exchange! If you're interested in producing fic of rev arc (or of the parent fic, RBC!) I encourage you to check it out!_


	12. Chapter 12

Francesca woke up, her heart pounding. The air in her bedroom was wrong, thick and heavy, and an electric current sizzled uncomfortably against her skin.

The wards, she guessed, struggling to pull herself awake and out of bed. With the information that Draco had brought back, Aldon had been preparing for the last week and a half for this. They had procedures, they had rules, and Francesca reminded herself of those rules in a failing attempt to calm herself down. She had to get up. She had to wake people up in the guest wing. She had to make sure Draco was up, and Aman, and at least one other person, and then she had to make her way across the manor to Aldon's study. She had a job to do, and she couldn't sit here, quivering in surprise, anxiety, and fear.

They were ready for this, Lina and Alex and Moody and Aldon, she reminded herself sternly. They were ready, they had been in meetings every day reviewing the manor's weaknesses for exactly this reason. Security measures had been increased, and people were no longer permitted out in the grounds, other than in the training yard. Even within the manor itself, certain areas were now off-limits, in case anything happened.

She just wished she knew more about what was happening. She could guess that it had been the wards that had woken her, and the silence of her room seemed to agree, but all she really knew was that something was wrong. She didn't know if the chills running up and down her arms meant that they had broken the wards and crossed, or if they were trying to cross the wards, or something else.

Aldon would know more. Aldon was innately connected to Rosier Place, whereas Francesca needed to be right in his study, her hands on the primal keystone, to be able to access anything. He had heavily implied that, were they actually married, that she would have the same control over his manor as he did, but Francesca had ignored him. Francesca was becoming very good at pretending not to hear his unspoken but heavily implied words.

Her blankets were too heavy, or maybe she was still sluggish, but she shoved them to one side and swung her legs to the floor. She was listening, listening _hard_, but she didn't hear anything—no shouting, no crashing, no yelling. A quick look outside her window showed the pale fingers of dawn beginning to stretch above the horizon. She couldn't see anything outside yet, but the electric charge in the air didn't lie. She swallowed, feeling a slow, churning ache in her stomach, and grabbed a dressing robe, stuffed her pocket with a stack of her paper charms, and ran out of the room.

She had her orders, just like everyone else, and she started hammering on doors down the hallway. She didn't wait for a response for most of them—she only needed to wake up Draco, Aman and one of her other Blake & Associates colleagues. Whoever else she woke from research and development would ensure that everyone else was awake and the non-combatants would go to a reinforced and secure room on the second floor, not far from the Portkey Hub, and wait for orders to evacuate. Aman had a battle station within the manor, so she had separate instructions, as did Draco.

Draco was the first to wake and poke his head out of his bedroom, when Francesca was already three doors down. His blond hair was tangled, a small tuft sticking up at the front in a cowlick, and he was still in his pyjamas. Regardless, his grey eyes showed no hint of anything except sharp alertness. "Time?" he asked, and Francesca only nodded before he disappeared back into his room. Getting dressed, she presumed, but she didn't worry about it.

Aman was up within a few minutes as well, pale-faced but determined. She only nodded at Francesca before she ran off, wearing sweatpants, a pair of boots, and a mismatched coat, her wand in hand. Albert was the first of the rest to answer his door, his face drawn, and his mouth turned down in worry. He didn't need to ask any questions, only catching Francesca's eye.

"Go," he said, gesturing down the hallway. "I'll handle everyone else."

Francesca nodded, distractedly wondering why the alarms hadn't gone off, but then an ear-splitting siren ripped through the silence—Aldon, or Lina, or Moody, probably. The sound was a wall, physical, pressing against her and thrumming in her veins. Her heartbeat was too loud, too heavy, melding and competing with the noise, and she stopped, gasping, resting one hand against the wall and struggling to breathe.

She fished, with one shaking hand, in her dressing gown pocket for her spells. The rough paper was less comforting than she thought it would be. Her breath was catching, her head spinning, but she wasn't carrying any Calming Draughts, nor did she have a spell to Summon one for her.

She didn't have time to have a panic attack. She didn't have time for panic, and there was a cache of Healing Potions stationed at the entrance to the guest wing corridor. The blue of the Calming Draught stood out, stark, among the brightly coloured vials, and she popped the cork with one trembling finger and threw it back. Her heartbeat slowed, her breathing evened out, and while she was still panicked, she was functional, and the world steadied itself around her.

There was no time for panic, now. She could have all the panic later, her inevitable anxiety attack no doubt three times as bad when she replayed everything in her head and judged herself for her many failures, but Rosier Place needed her now. She stumbled out of the guest wing, heading towards Aldon's study in the family quarters.

The dhampir were already moving through the common areas, the flash of white teeth and cruel, anticipatory smiles bright in the darkness. They would be dividing into groups of three or four and heading onto the grounds, each one backed with magical support, and their orders were to keep any attackers from reaching the manor itself. For the moment, the manor itself would only have her, Aldon, and Aman, providing support from a distance. If the attackers gained ground, the groups had orders to fall back to the manor.

Francesca wished she knew how many people were assaulting the manor, but only Aldon could tell her that. She found him, incongruous in sweatshirt and trousers and heavy boots, exchanging words with Alex outside the grand ballroom. He had his wand strapped on his wrist, and Francesca could see the telltale mirage-shimmer of magic around him that signalled that his personal ACD-ward was up. His handgun hung at his side, and he had a rifle slung over his shoulder and resting on his back.

"They're assaulting in two groups, about twenty in the front and an equivalent force in the back," Aldon said, his words calm and sharp. "Smaller than we had expected—I had thought they would throw no fewer than sixty at us, but perhaps they are holding back. They are not past the wards yet, and I do not want to trigger my main defenses unless absolutely necessary. They would be a waste on a force of this size. I think it best that I drop the wards and allow them in, fooling them into believing they have broken through, but only once your units are in position. How long do you need?"

Alex's eyes flicked towards her, but he made no further sign that he had noticed her. He, too, was prepared for battle—a broadsword was strapped on his back, strange against his plain black shirt and dark-wash jeans. "A surprise ambush on their ambush? We're going to be spread thinly, but I think it's manageable if we manage to eliminate a third or more with gunfire before fully engaging. I'll need ten minutes to get my troops into ambush positions, but no more than ten minutes. What are the ammunition stores like?"

"Good enough, though not as much as I would like," Aldon replied with a wince. "Limit your men to two clips each and make them count. We can always cast more, but our stores of raw metal are not where I would like them to be."

"I will switch my weaker shooters to one clip each and give the rest to my best shots," Alex decided, far calmer than Francesca had thought that anyone could possibly be at a time like this. "Front, or back, Aldon? Equal forces each side, but where will you be?"

"There is a window in the attic with a good sightline—I will cover the back," Aldon replied without hesitating. "With luck, perhaps I can take out five or six before they cross the trench line. Moody's unit is covering the back as well. Take the front, if you will."

"Done." Alex turned, his movement crisp, and Francesca saw that he, too, had a handgun at his waist. "Ten minutes, Aldon, then let the wards go. Francesca." He nodded at her and brushed past her, bound for one of the exits to the grounds.

"Captain Dragić." Francesca paused, hovering to watch Aldon. Was anything else that she needed to say, or that she should say? She had the information she wanted, being the approximate assault size and a general idea of what would be happening. She should be running to her own position, in Aldon's study, where she would be able to feel everyone and access all the defensive wards and spells, instead of hovering.

There was nothing she needed to say to Aldon. But maybe there was everything—a thousand unspoken words that she didn't know how to say even if she wanted to say them. What was she supposed to say, that didn't sound like complete nonsense?

_Be safe _sounded too plain, too simple—it was what she would say to Aman, or Lina, or anyone else. _Don't leave me_ was an option too, but she wouldn't say that, not in a million years when this was Aldon's own manor under attack. _Come back to me_ reeked of desperation and worry, and she understood how much Rosier Place meant to Aldon. This was his place, his birthright, and he would defend it until he died. She didn't even know if she wanted him to be anything different, because this was the Lord Aldon Rosier in front of her, not Aldon Blake. _Good luck?_

It didn't matter. He crossed the distance between them in three long strides, cupped his hand over her cheek, and met her lips in a hard, bruising kiss that Francesca was sure that he would never have given her otherwise. Except for the one time when he had been drunk, Aldon's kisses had always been gentle caresses, sweet explorations where he always seemed worried that he would cross some invisible line and that she would push him away. Rarely did his kisses feel like hunger, and Francesca staggered for a moment, grabbing at his shirt. It was only a moment, a single action, before Aldon yanked himself away with a rasping gasp.

"You remember your orders?" he asked, his words stern.

"Yes, I—I just—"

"Good. Follow them." Aldon moved to brush past her, then he paused. "This is a smaller foray than we had anticipated, Francesca, so it will be fine. I will make sure that you are fine, do you understand? Don't be afraid. Just follow your orders."

"I—" Francesca sucked in a deep breath, trying not to let her face show her worry, trying to believe him. The attic was a sheltered place, wasn't it? "Yes. Okay. Um. I'll—I'll see you later."

_See you later_. Was that really the best that she could come up with when her boyfriend dove into battle? Really?

Aldon half-smiled, a small flash of amusement crossing his face, and then he was gone. Francesca took a deep breath and hurried to Aldon's study, slamming her hands onto the black stone that dominated the room and shutting her eyes.

She had to know. She had to see—Aldon didn't want the trenches blown yet, not on a foray force of forty, but the explosive spells would still be under her control, and she could release the fire spells, and there were the landmines, too. She shut her eyes, sorting through the roller coaster of information that flooded her mind, and then she demanded that the manor show her what she needed to see.

Lina was already on the grounds, lying behind one of the small, earth-and-stone barricades that had been set down over the last week, well behind the mental line Francesca had marking the landmine zone. She had four others with her, two men and two women, each of whom was hiding behind another small barricade. There were far more barricades than were necessary to hide the five of them, though Francesca thought they were spread out more than she would like to be if she were in the field. On the west side, she could see that Alex and his group of four, all dressed in dark clothing and two of whom carried rifles, were making their way into position, barely visible in the early morning gloom.

At the back, Master Moody was setting up in the sculpture garden. The statues there had always unsettled her, but she had to admit that it was the perfect place to set up an ambush. He had a larger unit than the two groups in the front, though his was the only group covering the back. Draco was with him, and Francesca knew that they were being covered by Aldon above. Aman was, for the moment, covering the back with him with her wand out from a third-storey window. Aman's duties were largely to fall back and protect the non-combatants in the event that evacuation was necessary—a Defence Mistress she might be, but she had never been in active combat of any kind before.

Their units were too small. There were too few of them, compared to the huge enemy groups at both the front and the back. Francesca sighed heavily, her breath ragged and shaky; there were easily twice as many attackers as there were defenders.

She felt when Aldon let the wards fall, the shock reverberating through the grounds. She didn't recognize anyone in the enemy formation, but they didn't bolt across the ward lines as she had expected—they waited, they were patient, they pried at the grounds looking for the spells that they knew had to be present. Obligingly, Francesca nudged one of the fire-spells in the front into activating, along with three of the runic landmines. Lina could only blow the spells that had been hers to begin with, while Aldon needed to have his attention on the back line.

It was many long moments before they crossed over, their dark figures hesitant, and all of Rosier Place was silent and waiting. Francesca's heart was hammering as she watched, her hands itching towards her paper charms. Aldon didn't want to use too many of their other defences—he didn't want to blow the trench unless absolutely necessary. He wouldn't be happy if she set off too many of the defensive traps and spells, and most of them had taken days or weeks of effort to set up. Lina's glorious trench-trap had been nearly four months of blood and magic, and once it was blown, it would be blown. Even Moody's flood-spell could likely only be released once.

Even without the trench and flood spell, the other spells accumulated. If Francesca triggered too many of them, they wouldn't be ready for another attack if it happened too soon. A runic landmine or two might not cost much, but fifty of them cost a lot of magic. The fire-spells, the poison-spells—they all added to the magical cost of an attack, and as a paper-mage, Francesca knew more about magical cost than most.

Paper-mages lived on magical cost—on the amount of magic they each had in a day, on the amount of magic they could store in their paper spells ready for release, on calculations of depreciating magical energy for those same paper spells. Francesca's paper charms could carry about four days' worth of spells at a time, her lack of a large core made up by the fact that her paper spells depreciated slower as well. She could throw out, at once, nearly five days' worth of magic if needed.

The enemy mages were crossing the ward lines, and Francesca's fingers itched to release a few more of the defensive spells. They were crossing onto Aldon's territory, _her_ territory, and she didn't want them there. She didn't want these enemies on her grounds.

She didn't hear the shot, but she knew it had happened. One of the mages on the back line fell back, his body jerking, and the mage beside him had barely turned to look at him before he, too, was gunned down. Francesca knew, without having to think about it, that several floors above her in the attic, Aldon was discharging the shell casing from his rifle.

His shots were only the first—Francesca could hear the gunfire now, a violent _pop pop pop_ that was decimating the enemy front lines. Her stomach was roiling, a tight, painful knot only barely helped by the Calming Draught she had taken, but she couldn't look away. She couldn't afford to look away.

Oddly, it wasn't actually the gunfire that was so effective. Francesca could see that most of the shots, Aldon and the other sharpshooters with rifles excluded, were going wide, and even the shots that did hit were, for the most part, not life-threatening. The power of the gunfire was only the noise and the unknown. This was not magic. This was something outside magic, this was something that Voldemort's army could not and did not see coming in the pale dawn light, and Francesca wondered how many of them understood what was raining down on them. The attackers were falling back from both sides of the manor, retreating from the rain of bullets on one side, and the precise spectre of death on the other, and then the spell-fire began.

Things were under control. She was sensible enough to see that their response was incredibly successful, a week of preparation and the fact that Aldon had somehow managed to secure the most battle-hardened unit for Rosier Place paying off. But none of that helped—she was still anxious, still terrified, and she was still shaking, the Calming Draught only a mild buffer against the extent of her fear.

Her instructions were to sit, watch, and wait. She was the one with her finger on the protective spells, the one person in the manor who both had a full view of the grounds and who wasn't distracted by active combat herself. She was the only one with an overall view of the battle and she was the one who needed to make the call for evacuation, if necessary. Aldon had also reinforced to her that she should be in the first group of evacuees, but Francesca had silently decided to ignore that particular order. She'd evacuate, certainly, but not before others.

No one had told her how maddening sitting, waiting, and watching would be. She could watch Aldon, three floors above her, methodically lining up targets in his sight and firing, or Alex's unit slamming into the side of the front enemy group, flanking Lina's group that faced the enemy head-on. She could see that they were doing well, but that made no difference to her. She was still watching the people that she knew, the people that she cared for, fighting to defend her manor.

She wanted to do more. Her orders were not to do more, but she _wanted_ to do more. This was her home too, or at least it had been for most of the past year, and she couldn't just—just sit there and watch as they risked their lives. She didn't know most of them that well, nor had she really tried, but she didn't mind most of the ones that she had spoken to. They had always been nice to her.

She had her orders, but she wasn't planning on leaving the room. She wasn't even thinking of leaving the desk—she was sure that could use spells from here. There was a window, and she could call lightning from the skies. She had four prepared lightning spells and six fire-spells that she thought she could alter and use without leaving the room, without even leaving the desk. She could just… provide a little bit of extra support from here. It wouldn't distract her since she needed to watch the whole of the grounds anyway. It wouldn't be any extra trouble. None at all, and she would help in a more practical way.

She grabbed one of Aldon's fountain pens, pulled out her paper charms, and got to work.

XXX

The gun in her hand clicked empty, and Lina cursed. She was out of bullets. Sirius, Harry and Leo had managed to get them two shipments of lead and lead alloys so far to cast bullets, but neither had included the raw silver ore she added into her mix. Her bullets flew better in magical environments, and now she was out.

No matter. The opening round of gunfire had scared their attackers badly—based on how they acted, Lina didn't think that there were many of Voldemort's fanatics in this group. They were more than six months into war, but Voldemort's fanatics had been active for more than a year. Voldemort's fanatics would not have scared quite so easily, and the fact that they had fallen back meant that this was a small group, not worth dropping most of the major spells for. Only twenty of them, and Lina thought six had fallen in the first wave. Alex had two sharpshooters with him, and Lina's Stormwing shadow, Acimović, had a good eye and a better assessment of risk. Body shots only, even when they were close enough to try for headshots.

They were close enough. Lina put away her gun, drew her wand, and leapt over her low barrier with a yell. That drew their attention, and a moment later she was exchanging spell-fire with a lean, middle-aged man who moved too slowly for battle to be his day job. If she had the time to come up with the pure intention needed for a Killing Curse, she would have used it on him; as it was, they were outnumbered, so she could only spare the magic and focus to hit him with Slashing Curse laced with a Sleeping Hex. In theory, the man would bleed out before he woke up.

There was barely time to draw a breath or collect herself before she was back into it. A woman, this time, whip-thin and fast. This one had something resembling combat training—possibly a former Auror, possibly one of Voldemort's fanatics. Lina neither knew nor cared, she just knew that this woman was faster than her, and she threw herself out of the way of a light-blue spell that looked dangerous. She landed hard, her footing coming out from under her, and threw up the first shield that came to mind.

Élodie, Alex's second, hit the woman from behind, a dagger flashing into the woman's back. The woman gasped, the sound gurgling, and Lina knew that Élodie had hit one of the woman's lungs.

"_Merci_," she threw out, breathless as she pulled herself to her feet. She and Élodie had went a long way back—to Étienne, even, the three of them serving together back in her Service Year.

"_De rien_," Élodie replied, dodging as Lina threw a Blasting Rune at a wizard casting a spell behind her. The Rune blew up in his face—unlikely to kill him, but it might give him some burns. She didn't have time to check, a faint whisper of robes trailing on grass her only warning before she was back at it.

There was a crackle in the air, and lightning ripped down from the skies, blowing a hole in the centre of the enemy formation. Lina's nostrils were filled with the scent of ozone and burning flesh, and the enemy group scattered.

These troops were barely trained—once out of their basic formation, they were easy pickings for her and their units. Dhampiri war units, there were really none better. It seemed like no time at all before what remained of Voldemort's foray group were turning and retreating. Lina hesitated, glancing at her dhampir counterpart.

Alex shook his head, drawing his wand and spelling his bloodied broadsword clean. "Let them go, Lina," he said, his voice rough. "Small fry. They were only testing us. Let us count the dead—I have none."

Lina looked behind her, counting heads. Acimović was crouching on the ground beside one of the dhampir, but from the fact that the man was sitting upright and swearing up a storm, Lina assumed that he was perfectly fine. She counted her own heads, and it looked like hers were fine as well. "None for me, either. Fortunate."

Alex snorted, his blue eyes skimming the others. They were his unit, so he knew them better than Lina did. "Hardly. That was a trial run—Voldemort's weakest fighters. Had any of mine fallen to that, I would have been ashamed."

"The meat shield line," Lina muttered, turning back to scan the grounds. "They were trying to trick us into revealing all of our defences."

"Captain," Élodie came forward and saluted. "I count eight enemy dead, and a further three enemy injured. Shall we take them prisoner, or dispatch them directly?"

Alex glanced at Lina. "Not vampires. I will not make this decision."

Lina sighed, turning to look at Élodie. In the normal course, and as a mercenary, she would have executed the enemy injured—keeping prisoners was risky, and they cost money in food and upkeep. Rosier Place had a few cells in the basement, which were spelled to make anyone who stayed there long profoundly uncomfortable, but they hadn't been used for that purpose in years, if ever. If they took prisoners, they would need to reinforce those rooms further for security and to prevent escape. Executing them was the smart choice to make.

"Some of them are critically injured," Élodie said, her voice neutral, though her eyes were sympathetic. "Should we decide not to execute, we will need Healers."

But Lina was no longer a mercenary fighting without colour of right. She was no longer a paid security consultant, working in areas that were outside the law. She was no longer a very well-paid and sought-after assassin, nor a gang hostage negotiator, nor even a mercenary.

She was a soldier. She was a commander, and she was fighting under a flag and cause. They might not have uniforms, but if Aldon and James and Sirius wanted to argue their legitimacy later before the ICW, they needed to act like a nation. They needed to behave better than Voldemort did, even if it was inconvenient, and messy, and a risk.

In a just war, one did not simply execute the enemy's combatants. Not without a full war crimes tribunal, not without a trial in which they had the benefit of legal representation. One took prisoners of war instead.

"Matthias, return to the manor and get another one of the people trained in Healing," Lina decided, annoyed, looking back at Rosier Place. "We'll Heal them and take them prisoner. Marie-Pier, find the Lord Rosier. Advise him that we have prisoners, and we need a lawyer here, ideally with an understanding of the law of armed conflict as it relates to the treatment of prisoners of war. Two lawyers, if he can manage it, and stay with him. Aldon will want information out of them—tell them he can't meet with them until the lawyers arrive. Enrico, Bianca, Acimović, go around back and confirm the status of the engagement there. If Alastor's group is still fighting, I trust your judgement on whether to engage or to return for backup. Everyone else, keep an eye on the people here. We know Voldemort didn't send his best against us, which means he might have sent them against someone else. We need to confirm status with the other safehouses as soon as possible."

XXX

Aldon sat against the wall in the attic, his eyes shut with his rifle leaning against one shoulder. He was exhausted, a heavy lethargy and tiredness suffusing his limbs. There was a part of him that wanted to go back to bed, and physically he was tired enough that sleeping would be better than not, but his mind was still racing, still whirling over the dawn attack.

He thought he could count four kills for himself. Voldemort's fighters had been taken by surprise by his rifle, and he had used his silencer. Four clean body shots, before Moody's group had struck and things became too much of a melee for Aldon to be of any use whatsoever other than releasing the occasional Blasting Curse.

Moody's men had been alarmingly efficient, or perhaps Voldemort's group had simply been poorly trained. Possibly both. They had carved a swathe through the enemy—he had seen one _Retexo_, the Light equivalent to _Avada Kedavra,_ used by Moody himself, while Malfoy had pulled one _Avada Kedavra_ before being drawn into the melee of close-range duelling. There were at least six enemy dead in Aldon's back gardens, and possibly more. By the time Francesca had become involved, her lightning raining from the skies and flames roaring from the ground, Moody's group was already well on its way to routing the back group.

He didn't know who the attackers had been, because he hadn't recognized any of them, but their blood was soaking into his soil. Aldon thought he should care about that, but he didn't. None of their own had fallen, to his knowledge, and that was far more important to him than the fact that he had killed. He had killed before, and he would again. And again, and again, until he had the world he wanted.

"Lord Rosier," a lisping voice said from the doorway, the name coming out in pure French, with a rolled initial r and dropping the last r entirely_, rosy-ay _rather than the English _rosy-err_. It was easy way for Aldon to pick out anyone who spoke French, because those that did could not help but pronounce his name in its native language. "Stormwing Avery has taken prisoners. Three of them. She requests that you ask for two lawyers, preferably trained in the law of war, to come to Rosier Place immediately. I am instructed to stay with you until they arrive."

Aldon opened his eyes, his gaze fixing on the dhampir woman standing in his doorway. Langevin, he thought she was called. "The dead? How many?"

"None for us. Eight enemy dead," Langevin replied. "Three prisoners of war, Lord Rosier."

Aldon sighed, his lip curling, and drew his wand to summon two Patronuses. Prisoners of war. He would rather they didn't have any, and not only because, based on who Voldemort had thrown at them, Aldon didn't think any of them would have any information worth having. They would need to secure the prisoners, feed them, all the things that they wouldn't have to do if they were dead, and he wouldn't even get any good information from them.

The first merlin, he sent to Clan Cameron in the north—after being blown, Aldon had given Robin time off to recover, and to think about where next to place her. Robin wouldn't be helpful as a spy anymore, since too many people knew her identity, so he had been considering sending her abroad as a legal advisor to their international delegation.

He was glad he hadn't done so now. Robin had developed an excellent reputation within the Department of Justice, and over the past year undercover she had likely learned something about the law of war.

The second merlin, he sent to Queenscove for Percy Weasley. Although Percy was almost exclusively a criminal defence lawyer, he knew Percy better than the few other criminal defence lawyers that had joined their side. Percy was good on his feet, and judging from the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, adaptable enough to move into a new area of practice.

That done, he heaved himself off the floor and went to review the damage to his manor. He checked first on Francesca, who was pale and had ink splattered over her hands. There were several spent paper spells littered around her, mixed in with a number of paper spells destroyed by her apparent inability to use a fountain pen. She looked more drained than he liked, so he sent her to bed before going outside.

Bodies. There were so many bodies, and Alex already had his dhampir arranging a funeral pyre some distance away while another group gathered and laid out the bodies for identification. Lina was in charge of the prisoners, and all of their emergency-trained Healers stabilizing them and the other injured on the field.

In total, a strike on Rosier Place had cost Voldemort sixteen bodies, nineteen including the three prisoners of war. Everyone at the back had managed to escape, largely because Moody had given orders to let them retreat without returning fire. That was slightly under half of the people that Voldemort had sent against them in the first place.

Not enough people, in Aldon's opinion. Voldemort had to know that he hadn't sent enough people, and instead they had blown about a third of their Blasting spells, two fire-spells, and a poison spell at the back. The fire-spells and poison-spell would take up to a week to set up again, but the fifteen Blasting spells could likely be refreshed today without too much difficulty. He was too tired to weave the fire and poison spells into the keystones today, so they would need to be a priority tomorrow. Or the next day.

He needed a stimulant. Surreptitiously, he pulled his wand and Summoned a Wideye Potion for himself—he hadn't had any today, so it shouldn't be a problem, but Neal tended to ask annoying questions whenever he caught wind of it. He should never have implied that he had ever had anything resembling substance abuse issues to the earnest Healer. Then, he hurried over to Lina to debrief.

Robin caught up with them only a quarter of an hour later, as Lina finished detailing the morning's action.

"We will need someone to identify the enemy dead," Aldon was saying, with a nod in the direction of the line of bodies. "One of the prisoners might—"

"Not yet, Aldon," Lina said, shooting him a look of warning. "They're prisoners of war—we do nothing with them without the lawyers present, one for us and one to advise them. It's been thirty years since I needed to know anything about the treatment of prisoners of war."

"Prisoners of war?" Robin interrupted, joining them. Her clear blue eyes scanned the grounds, and to her credit, her expression didn't change when she saw the blood-soaked ground and the grim line of bodies, as well as the three prisoners on the ground.

Two of the three of them looked terrified—the last one, only resigned. Two men and a woman, all of them middle-aged. Aldon didn't recognize any of them.

"Your advice would be of use, Clearwater," Lina said, turning to her with a tired half-smile. "I do not, as a general rule, take prisoners. What are we required to do with them?"

Robin tilted her head towards Rosier Place, a silent motion to leave the prisoners. Lina nodded and led the way around the corner of the house, and Aldon silently drew a ward for secrecy. "You know very well that Voldemort wouldn't do the same, right? In his view, this is an internal conflict, and prisoner of war status is really only applicable to international armed conflicts."

"I somehow doubt that Voldemort thinks that much about it." Aldon snorted, glancing at a view of his grounds that did not include blood or bodies. "He does not seem to be the thinking type."

Robin smiled, a quick flash that had no amusement in it. "I wouldn't say that, but then again, I never came to his direct notice. I would say that whatever he is like, many of the people around him are intelligent and do have an eye to international law. Dolohov, especially—he hates the law of armed conflict, but he does know of it and they do have justifications for not following it. Aside from the fact that the law of war is only applicable to international armed conflicts, Britain has never been signatory to any of the Conventions governing the law of war—they were developed in the aftermath of the Muggle Second World War, in which many witches and wizards internationally were involved, but not us. Here, at that time, Lord Riddle was beginning to gain power and pass the first laws against Muggleborns. The rest of the world was growing closer to the Muggle world, writing the laws of war, while we withdrew."

"I don't care that we aren't signatory, or that there might be grounds for us to avoid the laws of war entirely," Lina said, shaking her head sharply. "If we want to join that world at the end of this war, we need to obey the international conventions now. Lord Potter would agree with me, Lord Dumbledore would agree. Refresh us on the rules, Clearwater."

Robin nodded, acquiescing, and leaned back against the side of Rosier Place. "To be entitled to prisoner of war status, captured prisoners have to be considered lawful combatants. Lawful combatants are immune from punishment for crimes committed during lawful acts of war, such as killing enemy combatants. Generally, to qualify, a combatant has to be part of a chain of command, bear arms openly, and conduct military operations according to the laws and customs of war—which generally means fighting as if they are in a war. People who aren't combatants, like spies, don't qualify for prisoner of war status but are supposed to be protected as civilians."

"What rights do they have?" Lina made a motion with her hand to move on, frowning in distaste. "What are we allowed or not allowed to do to our wonderful prisoners?"

"I'm assuming I won't be allowed to torture them," Aldon added dryly, only half-joking. He hadn't been thinking of torture—not the way that his cousin Caelum practiced it, anyway—but he was also lucky enough to be a Truth-Speaker. He had no intentions of being gentle in his questioning, even if he didn't intend on resorting to physical pain for answers. All of them, regardless of what they knew, would need to be questioned.

"No." Robin shot him an unimpressed glare. "You're also not allowed to compel them by magical means to provide any information other than their name, their age, their rank and their service numbers if they have them. That means no Veritaserum, no Legilimency, and certainly not torture."

Aldon paused, and he felt his eyes narrowing in disgust. He had intended on using one or both of Veritaserum or Legilimency, if necessary. "No Veritaserium and no Legilimency?"

"No. No _Imperius _Curse, either. Nothing that may be construed as compulsion."

"And…" Aldon's voice was quiet, with an angry edge. "What about my gift?"

Robin tilted her head, thinking, then she grimaced. "If you could get information without compulsion, I doubt it would be included in the prohibition. But what further information you could get from their name, age, rank, and service number only, I don't know."

Aldon turned away in disgust, as Robin went on.

"You're also required to treat all prisoners humanely, with respect for their persons and their honour, to inform their next of kin of their capture, allow them open communication with their families, including sending and receiving packages—"

"That is an _incredible_ risk!" Aldon burst out, turning back to Robin to glare at her. Notifying families and facilitating open communication, that would give their prisoners access to people who had a vested interest in breaking them out, and the packages would all have to be screened. They didn't have the resources to handle it. "The families—they'll just help the prisoners escape, they'll feed information to Voldemort, they'll do anything to harm us and get their family members back. It's just not possible!"

"If you want to follow the law of armed conflict, you'll need to make it possible," Robin replied coldly, looking back at Lina. "Otherwise, they also need to be given adequate food, clothing, housing, medical attention, and any other essentials of life. They cannot be forced to work, and if they do work, they must be paid. After the war ends, they are to be released without further consequence, unless war crimes are being alleged."

"This is absurd," Aldon snapped, turning away. "Next you'll tell me we're not even allowed to strip them of their wands."

"No, we are allowed to hold their wands," Robin said, with a slight laugh. "We are not allowed to break them, however—they are to be kept secured, and returned upon release."

"This is too much." Aldon turned to Lina. "We don't have the resources for this. We'd have to make secure holding cells, set up guards for them which would take away from our own patrols—this is the equivalent of keeping an enemy agent within our nest, and I do not like it. Keeping prisoners is an opportunity for Voldemort."

"What would you propose instead?" Lina stared at him, considering. "Releasing them, that they might come against us again in the future, or that they might provide further information about us to Voldemort? Or executing them? You've killed, Aldon, but let me warn you that executing someone is very different than killing in the heat of battle."

Aldon looked away. "I'll do it if I have to do it, Lina."

His core shifted uncomfortably, and he mentally told his gift to be silent.

"If the other resources aren't an issue, we can also try offering the prisoners the right of _parole_," Robin offered, interceding delicately into the conversation. "There are several options, and none of them are exclusive. Offer them the opportunity to swear an Unbreakable Oath not to harm anyone within your manor or attempt to escape, and then you have no need to worry about guards or wards and would only need to secure their wands. In return, you can offer them freedom of the manor. An Unbreakable Oath never to raise a wand against one of us or anyone on our side again, and you can offer to have them released or sent abroad. In exchange for other privileges, such as their own quarters, you can also ask them to willingly provide you with information. It might work to set the prisoners against each other—for example, you only need one to cooperate to identify the dead. Once done, you can give him preferential treatment as opposed to the others, and it might persuade the rest to cooperate."

Aldon sighed and shook his head. He didn't like it. He very much did not like it, but he knew that Archie and the others would, and he had to think about a world after. The world after would be easier to navigate with a reputation for treating their prisoners well and in accordance with the law of war, even if it was not, as Robin said, strictly necessary.

The world after. It seemed far enough away that a part of him simply did not care to plan for it, especially when planning for a world afterwards led to more risks for their current position. And yet he knew rationally that he needed to keep the world after the war in mind.

"Very well," he grumbled, somewhat bad-tempered. "I suppose, Lina, that you asked for two lawyers so that one could provide advice to the prisoners? Percy should have been here by now."

"You sent him the Patronus at the same time you sent mine?" Robin straightened from where she had been leaning against the Rosier Place wall, blue eyes widening slightly in concern. "It's been an hour, and it's Percy Weasley. The man is prompt to a letter."

"It is unusual," Aldon conceded. He had expected Weasley to be here as soon as, or sooner, than Robin. "I'll send someone through to Queenscove."

Malfoy was already hard at work on the day's correspondence in the room that Aldon had assigned him as his office, and he waved a short sheet of parchment as Aldon poked his head in. "An owl just came," he said, his face paler than usual. "Peverell Hall was attacked this morning—reporting two dead of theirs, though they successfully bottle-necked the attackers at the gates. They also report twelve enemy dead."

"Prisoners?"

"They didn't say." Malfoy shrugged. "I'm sure they would have mentioned it had they taken any."

Aldon studied him for a second. His gift detected nothing—everything that Malfoy said was true, but there was something slightly off about the young man anyway. He looked wan even for someone normally so pale-skinned, and there was a flatness to his words that seemed different than usual. When Malfoy was considering betraying them, or running away, the flatness of his words tended to come with a certain reticence and a distinct sullen undertone. This flatness came with nothing else, a lack of emotion that did not pair well with his blank affect.

As far as he knew, Malfoy had not killed before this morning. Aldon had seen him casting the Killing Curse, though he didn't know whether Malfoy's spell had hit its mark. He paused, wondering if he should say anything about it.

He didn't.

"Anything else in the correspondence?" he asked instead, nodding at the pile of other notes. It was no larger or smaller than it had been on any other day—no surprise, since the mere fact that Rosier Place had been attacked that morning didn't mean that anything else should have changed.

Malfoy didn't reply immediately, instead glancing at the pile, including the blotted piece of parchment in front of him. "I… have not managed to decode any of the missives yet."

He hadn't been able to focus enough to decode anything, Aldon understood. He hesitated but picked his words carefully. "I can take the messages today. Would you be able to go to Queenscove and fetch Percy Weasley for me? I sent a Patronus about an hour ago, but I have had no response. I am concerned, but also cannot leave the manor—we have set off too many of our defensive spells, and I need to be on hand."

"Queenscove?" Malfoy stood slowly from his desk. "I—yes. Queenscove."

"After that, if you could, please go to Potter Place," Aldon continued, trying to find a way to put this within Malfoy's usual duties. Aldon didn't want to talk to him about that morning—he did not think he was an appropriate person to talk to him about that morning—but he was sure that a full report to Potter Place was necessary. And if Malfoy went to Potter Place, perhaps Harry would be better placed to speak to him. "Advise the Lord Potter that Rosier Place was struck this morning, and we report sixteen enemy dead, no casualties of our own, but I cannot leave Rosier Place as we've blown more of our defensive spells than I would like. I'm sure they're in as much of a mess as we are right now, but if we can, we need to have a meeting later tonight. Also see if you can find Harry and ascertain her status—I may have a mission for her."

He didn't have a mission in mind, but it sounded plausible enough and if pressed he was sure that he could think of something later.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but stacked the other missives in a small pile and walked over to hand them to Aldon. "Very well. I'll be on my way."

Aldon nodded, accepting the pile and taking a look down at them. He doubted they would say anything much, but he'd never know until he decoded them. Another thing to go on his to-do list, and mentally he re-ranked his day's priorities. The messages were always among the most urgent, at least until they were decoded, and he didn't have the luxury of a break. He sighed, figuring that in the time before Percy showed up, he could at least make a start on the correspondence.

Percy Weasley arrived within the half-hour, Aldon allowing the transit from Queenscove in record time and meeting him in the corridor outside the Portkey Hub. "Queenscove?"

"Under attack. I never received your Patronus," Percy replied briskly, looking strange in jeans and a woolen peacoat. Aldon should not have been surprised—Neal's castle was predominantly foreign-born or foreign-trained, and as he understood it, among their set, robes were largely seen as formalwear only. And it wasn't as if Aldon could fairly comment on it either, his own manor having largely adopted Muggle dress with only a few exceptions. "The Lord Queenscove sent you a Patronus a few hours ago too. I assume you didn't receive it."

"I did not," Aldon replied, gesturing for Percy to follow him outside. "How bad is Queenscove?"

"Sieged, but otherwise fine." Percy's mouth twitched into a smile. "It seems that Voldemort is flummoxed by the Muggle-style physical defences, so the Lord Queenscove has doubled the wall sentries and they're plotting pitching barrels of burning tar on the enemy from the ravelins. With the failure of the Patronuses, however, they're making more inquiries. He'll send someone to report when they know something."

Aldon shook his head, worried. A three-pronged strike was a concern. "Ravelins? And Voldemort himself is there?"

"I believe so." Percy turned to look down on him over his horn-rimmed glasses. "Ravelins are triangular fortifications set outside a castle's walls. They provide an outpost for the main castle where defenders can go to harry an attacker, but also force the attackers to split their forces instead of trying to overwhelm the walls. The Lord Queenscove told me to assure you that he's fine, they're fine, and to thank you for worrying. He told me to sing it, as well, but please don't ask that of me. We've largely been hiding within the castle with a few additional precautions. What did you need me for?"

"We have prisoners of war," Aldon explained succinctly, his lip curling in distaste as he led Percy down the stairs and out the front door. "Lina insists that they need someone to provide advice to them before we attempt to question them."

"I see." Percy nodded, the motion crisp. He spotted Robin, still standing with Lina overseeing the three prisoners. "Let me speak to Penny, and we'll go from there. I'm assuming Penny already gave you legal advice?"

"She did."

"Then I cannot. We are conflicted on this issue. From this point onwards, Aldon, anything to do with the prisoners, speak to Penny and Penny will speak to me."

"I need to interview them, Percy," Aldon said, his tone carrying a note of warning. "As soon as possible."

"You can interview them _if_ they agree to it, _after_ I've spoken to them." Percy nodded again, but the intent, for Aldon to go back to whatever he was doing before, was clear. "It'll be some time because Penny and I will also need to come to terms on their treatment."

"Why don't I have any choice in their treatment?" Aldon muttered, annoyed, but he checked the time on the handsome new watch on his wrist. A dawn attack, but it was nearly ten-thirty in the morning now, and one eye over the grounds showed that Lina, Alex, and Moody had things well under control. Moody seemed to have moved onto re-creating the Blasting Rune stones that had been scattered over the grounds.

Aldon rubbed his eyes. With everything else under control, the correspondence came first. He couldn't know how important any of the correspondence was until it was decoded, so he returned to his study and swept Francesca's spent and ruined paper charms to one side to return to her later. With a three-pronged attack in the morning, and with Queenscove, it seemed, still in the midst of action, it would likely be some time before Rosier Place would need to defend a second attack.

The correspondence took him a few hours longer than usual to decode. As awake as he was, he struggled to focus. The slightest noise from outside had him up and looking out the window, the tiniest rustle and flash of movement from the corridor had his head turning. He was inclined to check on the rest of his manor mentally, if not physically, at least every fifteen to twenty minutes. Most of Blake & Associates, who had been run through Archie's first aid Healing course, were addressing the physical injuries from this morning—the rest were helping on the grounds, cleaning up and setting up new defensive spells. Francesca was in her rooms, and he resisted the urge to check on her.

Checking on his manor was a drug. It wasn't just that he could see the defences being rebuilt, the blood coming clean—the time scales weren't nearly long enough for that—but it was a strange, addictive comfort. When he checked, he knew where everyone was and what they were doing—when he checked, he felt in control of the situation, at least of his manor if not of the overall war.

He forced himself to pay attention to his correspondence instead. Checking did not change the results, and even if he felt in control, he was not. Lina, Alex, and Moody had the situation on the grounds well in hand, Robin and Percy would work out a plan for the prisoners, and the resistance would be best served, right now, by Aldon doing his own work instead of twitchily checking on everyone else.

There was a long report from Magpie, in which she stated that the ICW had formally expelled the Wizarding British delegation over what they called the Welsh genocide. Although the delegation was still resident in Geneva and still able to release their own statements, they would no longer be permitted to read their statements before the other nations. Her uncle was still working on the proper phrasing for a report of this nature for Voldemort, so Aldon decided that it needed to be slipped to Archie for formal announcement before the Ministry of Magic could find a way to spin it.

His sources in Hogwarts spoke of general anti-Voldemort sentiment, more evident since most of the students who had been supportive, even mildly, of new regime had not returned to school—the teachers were still trying to keep them out of the conflict, but Cardinal reported that they were having less success as time wore on. She thought that it was only a matter of time before things hit the boiling point and spilled into open conflict. Finch, who had returned to school with Seamus Finnegan mid-September, was one step ahead of her—he reported breaking up fights every few days in the Gryffindor dorms between Finnegan and Ron Weasley. According to Finch, the remaining Irish students at Hogwarts were struggling in the new atmosphere since they largely remained neutral or supportive of Voldemort. He had heard of fights breaking out in the other dorms, even if they hadn't yet spilled into the corridors.

Finch also reported that the former Light faction, those that hadn't already joined with the resistance, wanted to reopen negotiations to join. Their primary goal in negotiations was the preservation of their noble rights in any world afterwards. Finch expected that his parents would be sent as the negotiators for the remainder of the Light faction, based on their close relationship with the Potters.

Aldon shook his head, deciding to give this information to Archie to work out. On a personal level, as a Lord who had advocated for the demolition of the nobility before, Aldon no longer cared about the status itself. He was wealthy whether he was a Lord or not, and the prospect of sitting in the Wizengamot had never been very appealing to him. However, he knew that many of the others already in the resistance, particularly those foreign-trained, supported the full abolition of the nobility, while most of the Light faction were either neutral or supportive of noble privilege. Their summer negotiations had come to an impasse, so their original treaty was silent on the issue.

Peregrine, hidden within the _Daily Prophet_, reported that nothing was going out in the newspaper without being personally reviewed by Travers. Aldon wasn't sure how that would realistically have prevented their last strike from succeeding, but he didn't care because it would slow down the production of the paper. They would almost certainly have to reduce their distribution to one paper per day rather than a morning paper and an evening paper, which could only work in the resistance's favour.

Hummingbird, still nested in a high-level position in the Ministry of Magic, reported that all Ministry officials were being subjected to loyalty interviews. Several people had already been arrested for having less than full loyalty to the new regime, but a quick skim of the names told him that none of his had been caught yet. He sighed and shook his head—one of the most frustrating parts of being a spymaster was that, while he collected information, there was often nothing he could do for his agents while they were in the field, nor for the innocent bystanders that were caught by his spies' actions.

It was a few hours before the lawyers, alongside Lina, came to an agreement on the prisoners. None of them were truly supportive of Voldemort, rather they were people who had been pressured into service, and all were willing to swear Unbreakable Oaths to cease all hostilities in exchange for being sent overseas with the next group of refugees. Small mercies, Aldon thought, though a part of him was still disgusted that apparently the law allowed them to kill people outright in war, but forced them to maintain any prisoners in relative comfort if caught.

One of the prisoners, in exchange for securing her family and sending them abroad with her, was further willing to provide whatever information she had and names for the dead, so Aldon spent two hours in an interview with her later that day. The woman was chatty in her nervousness, spilling out everything that came to mind, but the most useful information she had was the new organizational structure for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Several other offices, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, had been entirely disbanded and integrated into the DMLE, and funding had been stripped from half of the departments in favour of the DMLE. She was eager to prove her honesty—indeed, she was so eager to prove her honesty that she second-guessed herself and everything she said rang true, even if it was contradictory.

It was all that Aldon could do to keep himself from snapping at her. Her eyes were wide, terrified, and filled with tears, and she flinched at even his gentlest prying. It set him on edge, that someone would be so completely and obviously frightened—and his own instinct, nearly an hour in, to give the woman something to be frightened of, was even more alarming.

Was he that person? He had never intended on using physical force. He might have considered Legilimency, maybe, or Veritaserum, but nothing like physical torture. He wasn't Voldemort, but he had killed four this morning, and it hadn't even been his first time killing. He had killed his own third cousin some months ago in cold blood, and he had no doubt that he would have executed the prisoners had it been necessary. He would have done it. He would have made himself do it, damn it all. But he wouldn't have tortured them, and he'd have killed them quickly and efficiently if that was what was needed. He was only Aldon Rosier, and he was not sure that he merited fear—not, particularly, with an agreement in place.

It set him on edge, and his back teeth ached with words unsaid as he kept his demeanour calm, cool and collected. He wouldn't snap at her. He wouldn't threaten her, not when she had already agreed to cooperate. But he wanted to.

By seven that night, a motley group of people and representatives had gathered at Rosier Place. Archie and Sirius were there, Sirius taking a risk and leaving Kingsley Shacklebolt to hold Grimmauld Place. The Lord Potter had sent Harry from Potter Place, since he could not be spared from dealing with the aftermath of the fight there, and Graeme Queenscove, Neal's older brother, was attending from Queenscove since Neal was still handling the siege. Percy and Robin were both still there, and Hermione had come as well, since she happened to be at Grimmauld Place when Lina and Moody had organized the meeting.

His house-elves had, with their usual efficiency, laid out a healthy spread—not just sandwiches, but steaming hot trays of pasta covered in tomato sauce, meatballs optional, salads, breaded chicken parmigianos, and even a tureen of soup. Both coffee and tea were widely available, and Aldon stacked his plate considerably higher than he would have normally. He had barely eaten all day, living off caffeine and air, and judging from everyone else's plates, he was not the only one.

"Should we begin?" Archie asked, throwing a look of worry around the room. "Aldon, I don't know if this is everyone we're expecting?"

Aldon shrugged slightly in favour of cutting a piece of the breaded chicken and depositing it in his mouth. "I don't know. Lina?"

"I'm sure I taught you better than to eat and talk at the same time," Lina muttered, though she was doing the exact same thing. "Whatever. Etiquette rules are stupid. No, I'm not expecting anyone else—most of the safehouses are nervous, they don't want to wander far from their grounds right now. We might as well get started."

"I can go first," Graeme Queenscove said, looking up from his bowl of soup with a friendly smile. "Let them eat, it looks like they've been drowning in battle cleanup all day. Queenscove is under siege. We have about sixty, seventy of Voldemort's soldiers outside the front gates. They've assaulted twice with no success."

"No success at all?" Moody leaned forward. "Voldemort himself is there?"

"There's a megalomaniac leading them, if that's what you mean. Powerful, but Queenscove has stood for more than a thousand years. Magical dwellings that old are soaked in magic, and Queenscove has faced down Lord-level wizards before. Queenscove has never been taken by assault either, only by treachery." Graeme, who looked very much like a shorter, stockier Neal, flashed a wicked grin. "We're entertaining ourselves by slipping out to the ravelins to hit them with spells from behind every now and then. My cousin Fei, in particular, is having quite a lot of fun setting things on fire. Underground tunnels, you know."

"They're still there?" Moody frowned.

"You bet." Graeme's grin dropped, and his voice took on a more serious tone. "After we learned about the failed Patronuses, though, we went and checked—there's a barrier set up not too far off our lands. It seems to limit contact with the outside. Not just messages, but also transit, no one can come in or out by the usual means. Good thing we have the Portkey Hub."

"Portkey Hubs are managed on a network, much like the Floo," Aldon added, swallowing his mouthful of chicken. "Because they are intrinsically connected to other Hubs, they can't be excluded by spell-work, but a connection elsewhere needs to be broken. I am not entirely sure Voldemort is aware, as of yet, of the existence of the Portkey Hubs, though he might be aware and not have the technical knowledge to understand the finer details."

"Sure." Graeme nodded, blinking stupidly in a way that Aldon recognized well. The Queenscoves, it seemed, generally preferred to be underestimated rather than overestimated, and that confused blink was nothing but a farce. "That. But it does limit our ability to provide backup as agreed to Goldenlake or Naxen now, since we can't transit more than six at once."

"We'll have to account for that," Lina said, glancing at Moody and the Lord Black. "How are your forces holding up?"

Graeme shrugged. "As I said, we're fine. Neal's doubled wall sentries, and we're also posting guards in the ravelins now. I don't think Voldemort or his people are familiar with medieval fortress architecture—there was nearly a riot when the fire started coming at them from behind. But we're also a big fortress, so at more than twice the sentries, we're all doing twelve-hour guard shifts daily. Further relief would be appreciated if you can get us any, and Neal told me to threaten everyone with all kinds of death if talk came up of withdrawing units from Queenscove. _All kinds of death_, because evidently there's more than one way to die."

"I don't think that'll happen, though the Lord Potter has the final decision." Lina sighed. "Moody and I will talk to him and see if there are any rearrangements that might be possible. Is that everything, Queenscove?"

"Supplies. We're going to need additional supplies. Raw metals for bullets—though we only have a minimum of people who are gun-trained, our Stormwings have blown through more of their store than they'd like. And I know the ACD production is backed up, but we think our circumstances should put us higher in the priority queue, at least for now." Graeme leaned back in his chair. "That's about it."

"Potter?" Lina glanced over at Harry.

"We also took an attack this morning," Harry said, her expression carefully poised. "Dawn, an attack force of approximately forty to fifty. They hit the north gate, the east gate and the west gate at once, but they didn't gain the grounds. The walls forced them into a bottleneck, so we were able to hold them off with a minimum of casualties—we had two losses only, twelve dead of theirs before they retreated."

"A quick retreat," Lina commented, frowning slightly. "Speaks to a poorly trained unit."

"Lina, if he threw forty against us this morning, forty to fifty against Potter Place, and another sixty to seventy against Queenscove, that is more than we believed his forces had been," Moody interrupted. "He had about eighty on the field at Malfoy Manor, and we killed near two dozen there. There were perhaps a hundred in Wales, plus the Dementors, plus the vampire covens. A hundred and fifty wizards means that Voldemort is recruiting, and he's recruiting fast."

"Dad thinks that it was a diversionary strike—meant to tie us down while they struck elsewhere, as they did," Harry confirmed. "And to test our defences. It did provide us with more information on the weaknesses in our own defences, so Dad is working on reweaving the wards and setting up new earthworks that we can fall behind if we lose the outer walls."

"Did you take prisoners?" Lina asked, methodically twirling pasta around the tines of her fork. "How many?"

"We didn't. The orders were to let them go if they ran."

Lina nodded, a little absent, merely noting the information. "Rosier Place was, like both Queenscove and Potter Place, struck this morning near dawn. Force of around forty, perhaps a few more or less. We report sixteen enemy dead, no casualties of our own, and three prisoners of war taken. The striking force was poorly trained, likely the weakest today—we suspect that the strike on Rosier Place was designed as a trial meant to set off our defences only, rather than a true attack."

"Prisoners of war?" Hermione straightened in her seat, leaning forward with her hands clasped on the table. "And what's being done with them?"

"This group have sworn Unbreakable Oaths to cease hostilities against us in exchange for passage with the refugees out of Wizarding Britain," Lina replied, looking up at Hermione. "Can you put them on your next passage manifesto? We also have a family—one of the prisoners exchanged information in order to get her family out with her."

Hermione blinked. "Not with the next group, no, nor with the one after that. It—it really is not as simple as adding names onto a manifesto. All the countries accepting refugees are screening candidates, so I'll need to interview each of them, prepare a report, and submit it to the receiving countries for their consideration. At best, it'll be three weeks, more like a month. You'll have to hold them for now."

"A month is a _huge _improvement on what the timelines were before," Archie boasted, his voice picking up in excitement. "Aunt Lily's revival tour is already making a splash! Wizarding America, Canada and Australia have all increased their targeted acceptance numbers and they're no longer privileging halfbloods and Muggleborns, and even the European countries are taking more. The British International Association is also seeing a _massive _increase in donations, so we don't have to steal supplies, we can buy them fairly and squarely!"

"_Not_ that we should stop the supply strikes," Harry interrupted dryly, placing one hand on her cousin's arm, stopping him from waving his arms about. "Voldemort loses resources twice over with every strike, because he's draining his treasury and getting nothing from it. On another point, Lina, you mentioned that one of the prisoners gave information in exchange for our getting her family out—have we secured her family yet?"

"Not yet, no." Lina shook her head. "You think they are under guard?"

"Not under guard, precisely—" Harry cut herself off, thinking. "He doesn't have the forces for a guard, but he probably has people reporting on the movements of their families. Just because someone is not with us doesn't mean they're necessarily against us, and Voldemort wouldn't trust the people he sent on this sort of suicide mission. He needed leverage. It'll be safer for us to extract them under cover. Leo and I can take charge of it."

"Good, do that," Lina confirmed, looking back towards the rest of the table. "In terms of the prisoners, when we took ours this morning, we didn't have a formal policy, so to be safe we followed the laws of war. Are there any objections to that treatment in general? I expect this won't be the only time we take prisoners."

"I hadn't thought that we would treat them otherwise," Hermione admitted, eyebrow raised. "What other options are there?"

"The exact options that Voldemort himself would use," Robin said, looking up from her own plate of pasta and salad, with a wry smile. "Torture and execution as enemies of the state."

"We are not doing that," Archie said decisively. "We're not stooping to Voldemort's level. We'll keep to the laws."

"Don't discuss this any further," Percy interrupted, shaking his head. "If we are abiding by the laws of war, then we need to observe the conflict rules, and I cannot hear anything further. Indeed, I've probably heard more than I should have. Penny will provide advice and represent the resistance—I and the remainder of the defence lawyers will handle providing advice and representing any individual prisoners."

"I'll need to know who I should take instructions from," Robin added, swallowing a mouthful of pasta. "And we'll need to draft policies. We've come to agreements with the three prisoners we have on an ad-hoc basis, but we need policy. I _love_ policy. I can do it, but an assistant would help."

"Try Susan Bones," Aldon said, reaching for his glass of water. "The Bones quietly joined after the Welsh massacre. She's at Hogwarts right now, but she shouldn't need to leave school for this."

"Susan Bones has a good head on her shoulders," Percy agreed. "She summered with Bones Goldstein last summer. She would do well."

"I'll reach out to her." Robin sighed, sounding far more tired in that breath than she had looked the entirety of a long afternoon. "Thank you."

"We should make an announcement through the ICW," Sirius suggested, setting his mug of coffee down. "Make it clear that, even if we don't have to, we are abiding by the laws of war. It'll set us up better for the future. I'll let Cissy know, and she can draft a release there. It can only work in our favour, if we're the ones seen as being humane and Voldemort just razed Wales."

Aldon laughed, a little rough, setting his cutlery down. "Speaking of which, my contact within the formal delegation informed me today that Wizarding Britain has been expelled from the ICW. They're still resident in Geneva, and I understand Sir Philip Bulstrode is delaying the news from reaching Britain, which makes it an excellent piece for us to release. Also, another informant advised that the remainder of the former Light faction is coalescing around the Longbottoms—they'll be coming forward to reopen negotiations to join us. Their priority is to maintain their noble status for the world afterwards. I'll leave it to you to negotiate with them."

There was an awkward silence, as the various people around the table exchanged looks—most had schooled their expressions to be carefully neutral, since the majority were noble, but Archie looked worried, Graeme intrigued, and Hermione was frowning.

"The British International Association is not going to like this," Hermione said slowly, lips pursed. "Part of our support is conditional on dismantling the political system that led to our exclusion in the first place."

"It was a fight to even keep our treaty neutral on the subject," Archie admitted. "The BIA wasn't alone in wanting changes to our political system. The shifters, too, wanted further representation, and a lot of our non-noble support is predicated on widespread emancipation. This is not something we can give up easily."

"But at the same time, Archie, you can't deny that we also need the support, and I think many of us around this table would want to keep our statuses, even if it's only symbolic," Sirius added in a low voice. "I'm not expressing an opinion, but the history argument carries a lot of weight."

"Not with me," Harry said, her voice clear and firm. "If it's wrong, then it needs to be fixed, whatever the history might be."

"Nor with us," Graeme added. "Neal hates politics—Mama likes it enough, and Neal will do it, but he'd rather be a Healer in an emergency ward somewhere than lord of a manor. Not that we hate the castle, mind, but somehow I doubt that stripping the meaning of the title means that we'd lose the castle."

"I, too, would prefer to spend my life pursuing my own interests rather than sitting in the Wizengamot," Aldon said lowly, looking down at his plate. "But I'm not so naïve as to think that my view is shared by a majority of my peers. Even in a world without Voldemort, it will be easier to win the support of the former Dark Society nobles if we maintain a semblance of the status."

"This is a serious change to our treaty." Hermione's voice was disapproving, her eyebrows furrowed, and she pushed her empty plate away from her. "I'll need to speak to the Board, and—"

"They haven't come forward yet," Archie reminded her, his voice a little sharp. "Let's not rush, Hermione. They haven't come forward yet, so let's put our heads together and we'll figure something out. Maybe no one will be happy about it, maybe everyone will hate it, but all we want is for everyone to _live_ with it. I'll—I'll deal with this individually, and will collect everyone's thoughts on it later, and I'll read about other political systems and come up with something. If we can win them over now, get their investment into a new world and a new political system, then we'll have an easier time establishing ourselves once we win."

"_If _we win," Lina corrected him coolly, pushing her plate away. "We're very far from winning, Archie. The fact that we aren't entirely on the back foot is not the same as us winning anything. We still have not made any serious strikes since Malfoy Manor, let alone succeeded at any. Sirius, what's the latest word from the Scots?"

"Four clans are still supportive of an Irish-style strike for independence," Sirius said, picking up the thread easily. "They don't want to wait. My sense is that the MacMillans and the McKinnons are going to follow them, but they're checking their forces over first—the McLeods and McLaggens remain opposed, but the McLeods might buckle under the pressure if the rest agree."

"The McLaggens will never agree," Robin snorted. "Rocks for brains, the lot of them, and they have all the pride of their nobility. Fortunately, they're one of the smallest Clans, since they haven't adopted in as many halfbloods as the others. In contravention of the Clanmeet Agreement of 1982, I might add."

Sirius tilted his head in agreement, his face grim. "We still have to wait for the Clanmeet, but my guess is, we'll have to join forces with the Clans and sweep from Scotland down. The advantages of this approach are that, if we succeed in taking Scotland and establishing a border zone, we'll be able to act a little more safely. We'd secure Hogwarts, Hogsmeade—we could set up formal refugee camps, as well as prisoner of war camps, if we need them. If we could have someone look into border control spells in other contested zones..."

"Aman can do it," Aldon said, pushing his own empty plate away with a sigh. "I am sure there are spells of some kind, though Wizarding nations have always been held together more by national spirit than anything else. There will need to be work setting them up, but I do not expect the population of Scotland will contest. Aside from the Clans, the _Daily Prophet_ has been pushing for people to move south out of Scotland for months—it's one of the primary reasons I had suspected that they would be a retaliatory target for the Irish independence strike."

"I had forgotten about that." Lina nodded thoughtfully. "That may help, if the only people that truly need to be thrown out are at the Ministry outposts. It might be quick, and then we can begin taking the international ports. Let's see how Voldemort deals with supplies when he can't import anything, and I'll put money on him either not knowing how to navigate the Muggle world enough to get supplies that way, or being too far above it all to do it."

"Don't put it past him," Robin said, shaking her head. "Voldemort himself might not, but his followers will."

Lina made a face. "Very well. I won't put my money on it. I'll still put Aldon's money on it."

Half the room broke into chuckle, while Aldon shot Lina an unimpressed glare. He thought he probably should have said something about it, but it had been a long day, so he let it go.

By the time he took himself to his own chambers, the sun had long since set. The funeral pyres for the dead, now each identified with brief notes sent to their family members, were burning, and the acrid smoke spiralled to cloudy skies above. Alex was taking care of it, a fact for which Aldon was grateful. He would give Alex one of his father's bottles of wine for this, one of the best vintages. One of the ones that his father used to bring out for his most prominent and important business clients. Taking care of fifteen bodies certainly justified the gift of very good wine.

Thinking of wine, Aldon wanted a drink. Wine would be good, but really, he would take anything that was not whiskey. Port. Sherry. Brandy. Cognac. Vodka. Gin. Tequila. He'd never tried tequila before, but he thought his father had a bottle of the liquor in his rooms.

He shouldn't. One drink for him inevitably led to two, inevitably led to three. But he had never tried, truly, to limit his own drinking before. If he just poured himself _one_ drink, and he left the bottle in his father's cabinet, or in the kitchen, or anywhere except bringing it into his rooms, then it would be that much harder for him to keep drinking, wouldn't it? He'd be able to exercise the self-control, if the bottle wasn't directly in front of him. He'd be able to stop after one drink.

A drink would soothe him. He had been running himself ragged all day, from an attack in the morning, to sorting through the correspondence, to handling the prisoners, to a long, serious meeting in the evening. He was unsettled, off-kilter—his shoulders felt tight, and he was both exhausted and too awake all at once. A drink would be relaxing, would make everything a little distant and easy and he would wake up refreshed and ready for another day.

One drink, he had just about decided. He'd fetch one of the crystal glasses in his room and go try that tempting tequila in his father's liquor cabinet, but he walked into his rooms and halted.

Francesca was curled up on his sofa, her hands limp on a book in her lap. A fire was already roaring in the fireplace, the warm light playing over her face as she stared into it. She was in a dressing-robe, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, her bare feet stretched out to the heat of the fire.

"Francesca," he heard himself murmuring, wondering whether he should really be surprised that she was here. She had never observed the proprieties of their situation very well, so if she wanted to see him, of course she would wait in his rooms. "It's late. You shouldn't be here."

"I couldn't sleep," she replied, looking over at him. "The—the fires, outside. And I napped too much of today. I shouldn't have—I should have done more. I was just—I was so slow adjusting my paper spells, they were prepared for direct use and not indirect use, and I couldn't figure out how to use your pens without them blotting all over, and I wasted half of them before I just—I gave up. But my core is small, so even if I could do a bit, it wasn't—it was so little compared to everyone else. And then I didn't even stay to help with the clean-up operations. I just—"

"You were drained," Aldon replied quietly. "You could do nothing more."

"Yes, well." Francesca turned away, looking back into the fire. "I couldn't sleep."

Aldon sighed, very consciously closing the door behind him. There would always be a part of him that recoiled, ever so slightly, every time he shut a door to close himself and Francesca off from the world—he had lived in one world for too long not to instinctively feel improper by doing so. But it was something that she expected, so he pushed the feeling away with practice and went to sit beside her on the sofa.

"What can I do for you?" he asked instead, offering a hand for her to hold. She set her book on a side table—a technical magical theory text, one of Aldon's personal favourites—and twined her fingers in his, cuddling up to his side. She didn't say anything for a moment, looking down at his hand, then she lifted it to her lips and pressed a kiss onto it.

"I want to stay with you," she murmured, her eyes not meeting his. "I just—I want to be with you."

"Err—" Aldon said, unsure how else to react. He had the sense that there was something going unsaid, and while he was accomplished enough at reading between the lines, Francesca tended to be completely outside of his experience. Archie, Neal, and their other friends, too. "It is late, Francesca. People will, err—people will talk."

Francesca snorted, letting go of his hand and looking away. "Let them talk," she muttered, sounding very put out, though Aldon had no idea what he had said. "They don't say anything worth hearing about us, Aldon, which you'd know if you listened to what was actually said."

"I'm only—" Aldon let out a sigh, cutting himself off as he thought better of it. Francesca had never cared a whit for her reputation, and saying anything of the like had never led to anything except silence and a cold shoulder. Instead, he reached out and draped an arm over her shoulder, tugging her closer to him. "I'm sorry. Of course, you can stay. As long as you need."

She relaxed, seemingly mollified, sagging into his side. She was warm, almost too warm, and Aldon swallowed, turning away politely as he caught sight of a bit of lace where her dressing gown gaped open. Lace. Of course, she wore lace. White lace.

She giggled, sounding a bit embarrassed, catching the sharp turn of his head. "You can—I don't mind if you look, you know," she stuttered, blushing deeply. "I mean—"

"If I look, it will be that much harder for me not to touch," Aldon said lightly, then he immediately regretted it. It was too crass, too vulgar—what had he been thinking? Evidently, he hadn't been, or a different body part had temporarily taken control of his tongue.

She giggled again, a little louder, tugging herself free of his arm. She stood, untying her dressing robe and shrugging it off. Aldon's eyes followed it—it was dark blue, fluffy, and very opaque, thereby being a much safer thing to for him to look at than his girlfriend. He could see well enough from the corner of his eye that her nightgown was white, made of a shimmery, floaty material that was very much not opaque. The neckline was lined with the lace he had spotted earlier, as was the trim on the bottom, though it fell barely halfway to her knees. There was a necklace around her neck, the one that Aldon himself had given her for Christmas, with a gold-dipped origami crane.

"Francesca—" he choked out. "I—this is—"

"Maybe—" she fumbled with her words, stepping between his legs. "Maybe touching was the point." She leaned down, pressing her lips delicately against his.

She was warm, and Aldon would have had to be dead not to react. In fact, if he were dead, he wondered if he might not react anyway. She tasted sweet, with the slightest hint of tea, her lips moist but not wet. Her body pressed against his, and he reached, with one hand, to steady her. That was all it was, steadying her before she fell over, and nothing else. It had nothing to do with the fact that the curve of her back was very attractive, that he'd fantasized about molding his hands over her hips for any number of other things many times before, or that the shimmery, floaty material felt silky smooth against his hand. His other hand reached up, cupping her cheek as he deepened the kiss.

It was electrifying. Every one of their kisses had been special, to his mind—he never took a kiss for granted, so he tried to savour every single one. But this kiss, these kisses, were different. They held the promise of more, and one kiss turned into a second kiss, and then a third, before Aldon regained control over his mind and pulled away.

"Wait," he said, panting slightly. "Francesca, this isn't—I mean, I can't possibly—"

"Why not?" she whispered, her breath brushing his ear, her arms around his shoulders. She was sitting on his lap, her body and breasts pressed against him, and his hand was still curled against her hip to steady her. "Are you not, um, interested?"

"Please don't pull that tone on me," Aldon said, trying to sound stern and knowing full well that his interest was perfectly apparent if she wanted to look—or feel. "I think that we should keep—that—to another time. When we're more serious."

"Are you not serious about me, then?" she asked, pulling away to look at him with a considering, slightly hurt, look in her eye. "I'm surprised. You—didn't you say, when we first got back together, that you were uncomfortable with anything other than a relationship of some permanence?"

"Yes, but—" Aldon sighed, trying to sort his words while being very distracted. Her gown was distracting. He wanted to run his hands over it, and over everything under it, too. "I am serious, Francesca. But we're at war, and … I don't." He paused and tried again. "If there was nothing else, maybe I would, but I wouldn't like to sleep with you and then leave you, willingly or not. Sex is something you should save to share with someone who can guarantee that they won't be dying in combat anytime soon."

"You're an idiot," Francesca muttered, raising a hand to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "An absolute, complete idiot. Have you considered, maybe, that it's my body? I can decide what I want to do with my body, and I want—I want to have sex with you."

"If I survive the war, then—"

"No." Francesca glared at him, the slight crease of an upset frown between her eyes. "I don't want to wait on a promise. I don't want to wait to see if you survive the war, because I know that you'll throw yourself into this war and that, even if you make sure that I get out, you would rather die than give up this manor. I want to have sex with you. I want to share this—this experience with _you_. You can say no if you don't want to have sex with me and I'll go, but if you do want to have sex with me and you just have some belief that—that we shouldn't because, I don't know, my so-called purity? Then I think you're being very stupid."

Aldon gaped for a moment, struggling to put his thoughts into words. He should say no. He should tell her that he didn't want to, and then he should help her put that fluffy, very opaque dressing robe back on and walk her back to her own rooms. That was the right thing to do, the proper thing to do, and that was something that no one would ever question. That was the route that protected both her honour and his. Sex was something that should be left to marriage. Many Muggles, he thought, shared his view.

The only problem was, he didn't want to say no. He didn't want to turn her away, he didn't want to help her put on her dressing robe again, and he didn't want to take her back to her own chambers.

He wanted to take her to bed, and her words did not help. It was her body, and she made her own decisions, and she wanted to give herself to him. She made it sound so simple: did they want to go to bed, or not? His own arguments, in light of her blunt words, seemed thin as tissue—predicated entirely on external considerations of what they should do, and not on what they wanted to do. He tried to convince himself that what he wanted was wrong, that many people thought sex should wait until marriage, but for the life of him he couldn't come up with the reason why, not with her body settled and pressed against his. It wasn't as if, if something happened, he wouldn't take care of her.

He wanted her. He desperately wanted her, and she was in his lap, wearing a gauzy gown that did very little to hide her body from his gaze. The warm firelight made her skin glow, and he could see the hint of her dark, peaked nipples from the corner of his eye. He wanted to catch one of those in his mouth, see if she would whimper at his touch. Without his conscious thought one hand reached up to cup her small breast, his thumb reaching out to brush the dusky nub. She gasped, and the sound made a part of him—a part that he was trying very much to ignore so that he could think clearly—twitch.

He wanted to touch her, to kiss her in places that he had only fantasized about, to take her to his bed and make her his. He wanted her, and she wanted him, and for the moment, he couldn't think of any reason why they shouldn't have each other.

"If you change your mind," he said, struggling to put his thoughts into something sensible and coherent. This wasn't fair to her—no matter how he put it, taking her to bed would not be fair to her, but she had said that she wanted him, and there was no question that he wanted her. "I'll stop. Say the word, and I'll stop. At any time."

She stared at him, and her expression was equally serious. "I want you," she said, her words firm, simple, and clear. "Take me to bed."

"Then, my love," Aldon said, carefully guiding Francesca to her feet and standing up. He offered her a hand. "Let's go."

XXX

_ANs: Do you know how hard smut is to write? It's so hard. That last scene of sexy descriptions near killed me. Anyway, this chapter goes out to Tamarisk; because of you, I actually had to look up my law of armed conflict notes for prisoners of war! Further thanks, as always, to meek_bookworm, partly for helping me try to figure out what euphemism Aldon would use for "penis". Further reminder that Rev Arc is nommed in the Fic in the Box exchange, and this author would personally absolutely love if someone took up the task of writing Aldon and Chess' night (because, you see, I just cannot do it)!_

_As always, please leave me a review or a comment-I love reading your feedback!_


	13. Chapter 13

Aldon woke slowly, his mind automatically checking the wards for any sign of trouble. There was nothing—the wards purred slightly under his mental caress, humming, telling him that none had crossed since yesterday at dawn. Another mental brush through his grounds, and his manor cheerfully reported that things were getting back to normal. Fifty-six runic landmines were back in active status, but there were several other defensive spells that would need to be reworked and fed back into his keystones. He'd begin doing that today.

His bed was warm, and there was a rustle of movement beside him. Francesca rolled over, nestling into his side, and he smiled as he gently pulled his duvet over her. She fit nicely beside him, her small curves molding to him, and he ran one casual hand through her long hair. She made a small, soft, happy sort of noise against his chest.

There was a part of him, louder today than it was last night, telling him that he had done a very bad thing. The rest of him simply felt satisfied, like he was a cat rolling around in a patch of sunlight. He wondered, vaguely, whether Francesca would be up for another round, or if she might be sore from the night before.

He'd already done the worst he could do by her by the rules of his upbringing. Twice, even. It had been fun. Why not again?

"What time is it?" Francesca murmured, her lips moving softly against his chest. "The sun is up."

"So it is," Aldon replied, realizing that there was, indeed, sunlight streaming into his bedroom. He hadn't woken up past dawn in months, and he reached for his wand to cast a _Tempus_ Charm.

Just before eight in the morning. He winced, his vague, half-formed morning plans of a round three disappearing into the aether. "I'm sorry, darling. I need to get up—I'm already going to be late for my morning debrief with Alex and Lina. And I need to put some work into the wards today."

Francesca whimpered slightly as he sat up. "Time?"

"About five minutes to eight," he said, realizing he hadn't told her. "You may, of course, stay in bed as long as you like. I can make your excuses to my mother."

"No, no." Francesca sighed, then she sat up herself, the duvet falling away to reveal that delicious, wonderful nightgown that she had pulled back on after the first round, that he had told her to keep on for their second because he liked it so much. She swung her legs to the ground, looking around and picking up her underwear from where they had fallen on the floor. "It's just—no, I mean, I'll work, of course I'll work. I just would have liked to lounge in bed awhile longer, is all."

"They say that, err—" Aldon paused, pulling on a fresh shirt and trousers. "They say that women can be sore the morning after."

Francesca giggled, a bright little burble of laughter, then she walked over to him and touched his hands where he had pulled a tie around his neck. "I kind of like the soreness, actually. It makes me feel—I don't know. Well-loved."

"I have a dozen other pieces of jewellery that could make you feel well-loved too," Aldon tried, banking on her good mood. He could have the entirety of the Rosier family collection presented for her perusal with one word to his house-elves, and it would be nice to see one of his traditional family pieces on her. Preferably on her finger.

She laughed again, pushing him away. "Don't push it, Aldon," she said, a wicked sort of look coming into her eyes as she walked out to his private parlour and picked up her dressing robe. "My first walk of shame, can you imagine?"

"Er—" Aldon blinked, following her out with his tie half done around his neck. "Walk of shame?"

She looked back at him, the smile disappearing as she thought about it. "It's a joke, Aldon. I don't—it's just what we call it, when people come home in the morning after a…" she cleared her throat, showing her meaning. "Night out. John says it's a rite of passage."

Aldon paused, uncertain of how he was supposed to respond. A _walk of shame_ didn't sound like a rite of passage at all, but rather like something that Aldon should be trying to prevent her from needing to experience. And yet, Francesca's expression held nothing but an eager sort of curiosity, and she slipped on a pair of plain slippers and headed for the door.

The door to the rest of manor, that was.

It was past eight by now, and the manor woke early. People would be up and moving—Alex's dhampir were all expected on the grounds for their first round of training at dawn, the one that Aldon usually attended, but by now they were all on their first break and would be flooding the common areas. Lina and Alex were waiting for him, because Aldon was certainly late by now, and his manor helpfully told him that Archie was waiting with them for some reason. Malfoy was awake, already eating breakfast, and most of Blake & Associates were either getting ready in their rooms or in the formal dining room with the breakfast spread.

Francesca's rooms were on the other side of the manor from his rooms. She would need to cross the common areas to get back to her rooms, and at this hour, in her current state of dress—

"No," Aldon snapped, grabbing her arm. "Didn't you bring other clothing with you, last night?"

She shrugged. "Why would I? It isn't that far from my rooms to yours. And it was late."

"You can't go out like that, Francesca," Aldon said, trying to sound commanding. "Not—everyone will know."

"That _is_ kind of the point of a walk of shame, Aldon," Francesca said with another small laugh. "A rite of passage, like I said. Are you ashamed?"

"No," Aldon replied, feeling as if he was being rather contrary by saying so. He wasn't ashamed, but he also didn't want everyone in the manor to know what they had been doing—a part of it was his conservative upbringing, yes, but he also thought that his personal life was none of anyone's business. "I'd rather keep our private life _private_, Francesca. As the Lord Rosier, certain standards of behaviour—"

She snorted.

"Well, I am still to observe certain standards of behaviour." He glared at her. "I'll summon one of the house-elves, they're discreet and can Apparate you back to your chambers with none the wiser."

She paused, then she pulled her arm from his grasp and sighed. "Fine," she said, and much to Aldon's relief, she didn't sound upset or angry. "I suppose—privacy."

"Thank you," Aldon breathed, not thinking about a rather large part of himself that also simply didn't want anyone else to see her in her current state of undress. That was something he would like to keep to himself, as much as possible. He clapped twice, not wanting to waste any time, and gave Francesca a quick kiss on the lips before sending her off with Ummi.

By the time he walked into the reception room for his meeting with Lina and Alex, Archie waiting there as well, he was well and truly late—fifteen minutes late, but at least it seemed that his elves were as efficient as ever and a carafe of coffee was already sitting out with a plate of pastries. They were already chatting, so Aldon could hope that they had been at least usefully occupied.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting," Aldon said, taking a seat and grabbing a croissant off the tray of pastries. "The manor reports to me that all of our runic landmines are back in place, but I did not reweave the fire-spells or the poison-spell yet. I will do those today if no one objects. We should also consider whether we want to vary our defensive spells, since those that ran yesterday will be reporting on those spells to Voldemort. Alex, the patrols last night and this morning?"

Alex studied him for a minute. "Have a good night, Aldon?"

"I'm sorry?" Aldon blinked, keeping his face clear of anything except polite confusion with the long practice of Slytherin House.

"You missed morning practice," Alex replied, a small smile coming on his face. "You also smell of sex. You didn't shower."

Aldon scrambled for an innocuous excuse, before realizing there really wasn't one. He'd simply have to brazen it out, so he pulled out his most disapproving, aristocratic glare and used it. "I hardly think we need to discuss this, Alex. It is my personal life, and I would thank you to stay out of it."

"Need to discuss? No." Alex's smile widened. "Want to? Yes. So, how was it?"

"Hey, we're talking about my _friend_, here," Archie interceded, his eyebrows fixed in a mock-stern frown even if his lips were tugging into a tiny smile. "I really don't want to know what Aldon and Francesca are getting up to—as long as everyone is consenting, and you're all using protection it's fine. Let's just move on. I was hoping you'd have a bit of time this morning to talk about what the former Dark Society nobility might be able to accept—"

"I didn't teach you any contraceptive spells." Lina interrupted, frowning at Aldon with a hint of concern on her face. "Did you learn one from Edmund? Or Queenscove? I know you won't have learned one from Alex, the dhampir don't use them, but tell me you did learn one somewhere and I don't care where because I do _not_ want to be worrying about a new Rosier Heir right now."

"Wait," Archie spluttered, the half-amused, half-stern expression dropping from his face in an instant, morphing into horror. "Wait. You went and you slept with _my friend_ and _you don't know a contraceptive spell? _And you—"

He stood up, turning to glare at Alex. "Your unit just _doesn't use them?"_

Alex leaned back, looking up at Archie with his eyes slightly narrowed and one incisor poking out from his upper lip. "Almost all dhampir are Muggle. I am an exception. As part-humans, we neither carry disease nor do our couplings result in children—"

"Don't give me that." Archie kept glaring at him, his grey eyes stormy. "I'm a _Healer in training_, I know how biology works. At least _some_ of your couplings have to result in children, otherwise you'd go extinct. You're telling me, that you just don't use any form of protection at all?"

Alex's lip curled, showing a little more of his fangs. "As I said, we don't carry disease. As for the few couplings that we have that do result in children, that is an Order concern and you can trust that we take care of our own, Black."

"That is—" Archie spluttered, turning away and standing to pace an impatient, frustrated line on the other side of the coffee table. It was clear that he did not trust Alex at his word, and Aldon wondered briefly whether he should intercede to bring things back to the security of Rosier Place. Or to Archie's planned discussion about Dark society nobility.

But that would also draw Archie's attention back to him, and he had just spent the night with one of Archie's friends. Somehow, he didn't think that experiencing Archie's ire for himself individually rather than in a general sense would be much better. He glanced at Alex, who was looking increasingly offended.

Archie's voice was rising in pitch. "Have you people not heard of _sexually transmitted infections? _Gonorrhea ring a bell? Chlamydia? Herpes? _Syphilis?!_ What is this, the eighteenth century? Do I have to worry about disease spreading through our army?! What sort of sexual education do you lot receive at Hogwarts, anyway?"

He whipped around to glare at them—or at least at Aldon and Alex, and it took Aldon a moment to see that Archie actually did want an answer. He threw Lina a pleading look, but she was studying Aldon intently, her eyes narrowed.

"Tell me you _did_ use a contraceptive spell, Aldon," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Er—" Aldon cleared his throat, glancing between Lina and Archie, and opting to go with the easier question for the moment. The Hogwarts question, because he didn't have a good answer for the other one. He didn't know any contraceptive spells. He turned to Archie. "At Hogwarts, it is left to the Heads of Houses and not widely discussed. It was not considered appropriate for wide discussion."

"The Gryffindors each receive a booklet at the beginning of their fourth years on the subject, and the Hufflepuffs have a thorough seminar courtesy of Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey in their third years. They were always the ones who seemed to know the appropriate spells, when I was at Hogwarts," Alex added, his voice cool and terse. "The Slytherins, as I understand it, are only told to remain abstinent lest they shame their families. As for the Ravenclaws, we have an annual event held before the entire house, the fifth-year debate on sexual ethics. In my year, the topic was sexual assault—what should be considered assault, what should not be considered assault, and why. It was an excellent education."

Aldon hadn't known that—what he had remembered of Professor Snape's fifth-year lecture was an overwhelming sense of embarrassment as Professor Snape, in the iciest voice imaginable, told them all that if he had to write home to their families because any of them had done anything _regrettable_, they would wish they had never been born.

"Aldon…" Lina's voice was quiet in warning, and for a moment, Aldon was back in childhood, having done something that his mother very much did not like. Clamoured for too much attention during a business visit, perhaps. Or otherwise embarrassing himself before guests.

"You had a _debate_ on _sexual_ _ethics_," Archie was repeating, the pitch of his voice dipping. "A _debate_."

"I argued that the sole criterion in determining assault should be consent, and then I had a fight with Tim Kastner who argued that marital rape was not rape. After I countered with my fist and advised the entire House not to marry him, he resorted to several _ad hominem _attacks on my character." Alex paused, then he smirked slightly. "I won the debate, and company in my bed for several nights thereafter."

Archie gaped for a minute, seemingly at a lost for words, then he put his head in his heads.

"Aldon." Lina repeated, her fingers tapping dangerously on her armchair. "Just so you know, I do not care that you slept with your girlfriend, but please tell me you were sensible enough to use a _contraceptive charm_."

"I, er—" Aldon looked away, clearing his throat, which had mysteriously gone dry. "I don't know any contraceptive charms. And, er—if anything happens, Lina, I'll take responsibility, I swear it."

He steeled himself for her inevitable reaction. Whatever they were now, Lina had been his mother for his entire childhood, and he had enough of her reactions to his actions in the past that he knew what was coming.

He was not disappointed.

"That is not _point_, Aldon!" Lina roared, standing up. "The _point_, you bumbling idiot, is that we are in the middle of a _war_, and if there's a bad time to knock someone up it is now, do you understand? I know that you enjoy your privacy and learning things on your own, but there are a multitude of books that would have given you the right spells if you had just bothered to look! Or you could have asked someone—anyone! Christie would have taught you the spells with no questions asked, Sirius would have taught you without teasing you. Even Queenscove would have only had dramatics about the fact you didn't already know one before teaching you! What were you _thinking?!_"

"I think it's pretty clear that he _wasn't_ thinking, Lina," Archie said, looking up with an annoyed, resigned expression on his face. "But I wouldn't worry about it. Even if Aldon is an ignorant _arse,_ Chess isn't—we all have sex ed in first year at AIM, it's a required lecture that they put with our History of Magic series. She probably has a contraceptive amulet, but I'll go find her and check. It's within a day, so I can also give her the Morning After Spell if she doesn't have one and she can learn from the two days of puking. Then, I suppose I'll have to put together a sexual education program for the whole army, as well as conducting widespread STI testing. As if we didn't all have enough to do already."

Lina sighed, turning away and heading for the door. "That sounds fine, Archie. Aldon—I can't even bear to look at you right now. I will go out to begin resetting the defensive spells for you to weave into the keystones this afternoon. We will debrief later, there's little of importance thus far today anyway."

Archie glared at Aldon and Alex for a very long moment, then he drew his wand. Aldon ducked, but whatever it was, Archie had anticipated his dodging and the spell hit him anyway. He checked himself over for a long, panicked second, but it didn't seem to done him any harm.

He let out a slow breath, straightening and glancing over at Alex. His friend was now sporting an even more offended expression, as well as a bright blue glowing mark on his cheek. Judging from the way that Alex's eyes flicked to Aldon's own cheek, Aldon guessed that he was now wearing a similar mark. He reached his hand up to touch it, but he couldn't feel anything.

"STI Diagnostic Charm," Archie said, sounding very unimpressed. "You're both clean. The blue mark disappears after a few minutes. I'm going to go check on Chess—Aldon, if you can find some time in the next day or so for us to talk about what compromise the Dark Society nobles might be willing to come to on the governance issue, that would be great."

He walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind.

Aldon cleared his throat. "I'm surprised he caught you with the spell, Alex."

"I wasn't expecting it," his friend admitted slowly, with a slight wince. "We are also trained as children not to flinch and dodge from Healers. I told him that we didn't carry disease."

"He didn't believe you." Aldon rubbed at his cheek, though he didn't seriously think the blue mark was something that he could rub away. "I have to admit, I am also surprised that the fixation was on the contraceptive charm. I would take responsibility if anything happened—I did think about that."

"I am sure you would. Just as the Order has strong protections in place for anyone carrying a potential dhampiri child." Alex paused, uncrossing his arms, and standing up with a shake of his head. "I regret even bringing it up, now. But you missed morning training. We should go outside and remedy that."

Were the humiliation of the STI Diagnostic Charm not enough, Christie was waiting in his rooms later that night, being very motherly, very understanding, and very intent on teaching him the appropriate contraceptive charm. Aldon gritted his teeth and learned it.

XXX

Chess did, as it happened, have a contraceptive charm.

"Yes, I asked Hermione to spell my necklace for me the last time she was here," she said, looking up from her bowl of yogurt, fruit, and granola with a puzzled look on her face. "I wouldn't be so stupid, Archie."

"Your boyfriend would," Archie grumbled, reaching over to steal a strawberry off her parfait. "Did you know, Hogwarts doesn't have any systematic sexual education? I mean, it sounds like at least half of the Houses get the proper information and they probably spread it to the other half, but _really_?"

Chess shrugged. "Considering how young they seem to marry here I can't say I'm that surprised." She spooned another mouthful of yogurt in her mouth. "I'm sure that Aldon had very romantic ideas about how he'd take care of me if anything happened."

"And you're _dating_ him?" Archie shook his head. "I have to put together sex ed for everyone now. And then test everyone for STIs. Eighteenth century, much?"

Chess shrugged again. "I find Aldon's notions to be kind of charming, in the right light. And I think most armies include some sort of sex ed—I mean, _MASH_ has a few scenes of sex ed, doesn't it? Soldiers are famous for sleeping around, fathering babies, getting syphilis and stuff. It just makes sense."

"I know." Archie heaved another sigh. "I had just kind of hoped that we'd be the exception, you know? This is going to be _so _awkward."

It was, in fact, not quite as awkward as he had feared. Writing a sex ed lecture didn't take more than a couple days with Hermione's help, and Dad's advice was to hand it off to the unit captains with an order to for them to deal with it. Archie sat through the lecture done by Kingsley Shacklebolt for the unit at Grimmauld Place, which he thought went well. Kingsley didn't seem overly bothered and simply read the lecture with a straight face and a calm and professional demeanour. He could hope that it had gone just as well throughout the rest of the army.

Rather than specifically checking everyone for STIs, Dad and Uncle James also suggested just folding the STI Diagnostic Charm into a general medical exam, so the half-dozen Healers they now had were instructed to organize a mass campaign of physicals for the whole army. The idea was that any long-lasting injury or condition needed to be identified, cured if possible, and managed if not. STIs simply fell into that category. Archie took his turn with those when he had time, but that wasn't often because he was soon drawn again into a new round of negotiations—this time with the Longbottoms, on behalf of the remaining Light faction Houses.

Their initial correspondence had gone to Uncle James, who had passed it off to Dad for Archie. Archie had replied, suggesting a meeting at Grimmauld Place. The Longbottoms had countered with their own manor, which Archie had refused because their manor wasn't secure. It had taken several days of back and forth, while Archie collected the views of as many of the groups that he could get to, before they finally settled on meeting at Potter Place.

They were in a different position now than they were in the summer. In the summer, the lines hadn't yet been formed—Archie had been trying to get enough consensus to form a resistance against Voldemort at all. As Aldon said, if the Light faction had wanted to set a firm line, that was the time to do it. Six months later, the resistance carried with them a collection of successes and failures and a unity that they had not had before, and the power dynamics had shifted. The remaining Light faction families were only now approaching them to join, and Aldon thought they should grovel for the privilege.

Harry has a more prosaic take on the matter. Unlike most of the people who had joined the treaty in the summer, the Light faction hadn't had a reason to join. Most of the Light faction had been secure—not entirely happy, maybe, and most of them had things that they wished were different, but they hadn't been prepared to go to war over anything.

By contrast, most of the allies that Archie had managed to secure into the alliance had already been prepared to go to war for _something_—maybe not in that exact time and place, but they had always been prepared for war. Consider groups like the Irish, or the British International Association, or even Aldon—they had each been dissatisfied with the world that existed, to the extent that they had each probably been prepared for war in and of themselves. They were only looking for the best way to go to the mat, and Voldemort provided them with the perfect opportunity to unite with others and increase their chances of success.

Families like the Longbottoms and the noble Ollivanders were purebloods. They might have had problems with the world that was, but nothing to the extent that the other groups had. Unlike the Irish and the British International Association, they hadn't lived for generations with the burning knowledge of their own oppression—unlike Aldon, they hadn't yet had a future they very much wanted yanked away from them. Unlike Archie, they hadn't lost anyone.

Harry thought that a sympathetic approach would work better. Of course, she said, they hadn't been prepared for a treaty negotiation in the summer—the mere fact that they were approaching now rather than negotiating earlier shouldn't be held against them. They were only trying to preserve some semblance of the world that they had known before, and she thought that they'd be open to the reality of compromise.

Archie dearly hoped that she was right. They were six months in, and the treaty had been hammered out. He had met with a representative of every other group that was still with them to talk about the nobility issue, and while he had found some flexibility, he couldn't be sure how far that would go.

The British International Association was largely opposed to any form of the nobility remaining, and while the shifters were open to some form of nobility remaining, they were insistent on greater representation for themselves. Even Leo, speaking for what remained of the Lower Alleys, roughly acknowledged that he was not in favour of the continuance of the previous form of government without greater representation form the Alleys. A general canvassing of the soldiers over the past week showed that they, too, tended to be more in favour of a change in the system of governance than not.

In general, the former Light faction nobles that Archie spoke to simply didn't want to express much of an opinion. They largely agreed in striking the laws on blood status, and more than a few expressed an openness to more voices in the Wizengamot, but most of them didn't seem to want to take a stronger stand. Archie had the strong impression that they certainly wanted to preserve their own status, wealth, and position in society, but did not want to be seen doing so in the face of decades of injustice against their other allies—even Dad and Uncle James had simply shrugged uncomfortably and said that they understood that any world after the war would necessarily be different. Only Neal said that he'd happily avoid the Wizengamot for the rest of his life and to please, strip him of his title.

Aldon thought that most of Dark Society would be even keener on preserving what they could of the world that they had had than the Light faction, a view which Harry's friend Draco had confirmed. The promises they had already made to other parties, particularly the widespread repeal of pureblood supremacy laws, would be difficult enough for Dark Society to accept. Preserving the nobility, along with as many of the historic noble rights, privileges, and responsibilities would make the transition to a new world easier for them. Aldon also thought, however, that most of Dark Society's views on this should be completely ignored, since they weren't part of the alliance, but Archie worried that ignoring their view entirely would make them no better than the Wizengamot.

This was just a first meeting, Archie reminded himself, taking the Portkey Hub over to Potter Place. He would be meeting with them alone—Queenscove was still under siege, and both Dad and Uncle James were making daily visits to check on them. It was good that Queenscove kept Voldemort preoccupied, but they were at a standstill with daily assaults, and Uncle James had started rotating the troops through for relief and to give newer units more experience. Harry was off with Leo, the two of their heads together on an extraction plan for the family of one of their prisoners of war.

At Potter Place, Archie made a tray of tea, set it under one of Chess' Heating Rune paper charms, and set up in the formal reception room. The Potters almost never used it, so he'd had to clean and dust it earlier, but Aldon said that external factors would help him set the tone for the meeting. Archie alone would struggle to establish gravitas—a formal setting would help him. He was early—earlier than he needed to be, to be honest—but at least that gave him a chance to review his notes.

The Longbottoms showed up exactly on time—ten in the morning. Uncle James' unit captain, left in charge while Uncle James himself was away, collected them from the alternate, hidden Apparition point and walked them to the formal reception room. Archie put his notes down, flipped his notebook shut, and stood to greet them.

"Heir Longbottom," he said formally, offering a hand to shake and trying to remember the long-ago etiquette that his tutor had taught him. "Mistress Longbottom. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Heir Black," Frank Longbottom said, his light blue eyes looking Archie over curiously. He looked at Archie's hand with a slight frown, and Archie dropped it quickly—that was right, wizarding nobility didn't shake hands. "Thank you for meeting with us."

"It's my pleasure," Archie replied, instead bowing awkwardly over Mistress Longbottom's hand. "Please, call me Archie. Have a seat."

"Are we expecting anyone else?" Mistress Longbottom asked, looking around curiously. She and Aunt Lily were friends, but Archie wasn't entirely sure how much Aunt Lily had spoken to her since the summer negotiations had fallen through and the war had begun in earnest. He knew that there had been some sort of backchannel between the two of them, and that Lily had probably been working the Longbottoms through her for awhile, but of necessity the communications had probably been limited.

"I'm afraid that everyone else is occupied," Archie replied pleasantly, pouring tea for them both and pushing the tray of sugar and milk towards them. "I am in charge of coordinating allies—well, coordinating allies and a bunch of other things. In a war, we all help where we can."

To be honest, Archie didn't think that was entirely true. Some groups looked to him as a leader, but he rather thought he and Dad shared the coordination role, he and Hermione both worked on the large-scale Healing concerns with Healer Hurst, and he had a ton of help with _Bridge_. Everyone did their part in a war, but Aldon had told him to say that he was in charge of something. He was important, and the Longbottoms ought to know it.

Heir Longbottom nodded, exchanging a glance with his wife. "I see," he said. "Please, call us Frank and Alice. Our families are friends, and while we've never met, I feel like I know you."

Archie smiled, though it felt a little fake on his face. It was a little strange that, despite the relationship Aunt Lily had with Alice Longbottom, he had never met them or their son, Neville. Harry had only met Neville at school, too. For himself, Archie didn't feel like he knew the Longbottoms at all, but it was probably better to let that go. He preferred first names anyway—the formality of Lord this, Lady that, Heir so-and-so, he had a harder time keeping track of the titles than either Harry or Aldon did.

"Frank and Alice, then," he replied easily, lifting his teacup to his mouth, deciding to move onto the main event. Normally, Archie liked small talk, but the circumstances simply made it feel fake. "I understand you're here on behalf of a number of the former Light faction noble houses?"

"Yes, that's right." Frank smiled in apparent relief. "The past six months have shown us that Voldemort is a serious threat to our way of life—we've been instructed to negotiate with the resistance to see whether and how we might join you."

"Well, joining us is no problem," Archie said with a quick grin, purposely misunderstanding. From Aldon's spy, Finch, he knew what the Light faction wanted, but none of their correspondence had said anything about it. "We're always looking for more soldiers, and if you wanted to enlist, I'm sure we'd be happy to find places for everyone. Outside of fighting, there are also plenty of support roles. We always need more Healers and administrative clerks, for example."

Frank laughed a little, embarrassed. "It's not as simple as that, I'm afraid. We are looking for some concessions from the resistance before we commit. No different than your other allies, Archie, I'm sure."

Archie's smile was stiff. "We are at a different stage of the war now than we were in the summer, Frank. I'm afraid the time for demanding concessions is over."

"We understand," Alice added, her eyes wide as she leaned forward. "But we represent several families, including among us thirty fighting witches and wizards. We also have a dozen trained Healers, and of course we'd provide help in all other areas too."

"But you're also not exactly in a good position yourself," Archie pointed out, setting his teacup back on the table and hiding his envy—twelve trained Healers, that would more than double the number of accredited Healers in their Healing corps! But he didn't need anyone whispering on his shoulder to know that he needed to keep that interest to himself. "Voldemort has solidified his power in the last six months—the space for remaining neutral is shrinking. At this point, if you don't ally with us, you'd be looking at facing Voldemort without support at all."

"That's true." Alice smiled, her round face earnest and open. "But in these circumstances, don't you think we can come to an agreement?"

"That depends on what you're looking for," Archie replied, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement as he reached for his notebook and a pen. He flipped it to a clean page, setting the notebook on his lap. "As you know, within our alliance, we're already bound by a treaty. There are promises which have already been made, and we will not be reneging on them. As much as we would welcome your support, the support of each of the other groups is equally as important."

"We understand," Alice said quickly, straightening. "We do appreciate that, whatever exists after the war, it will be different from before."

"That's right," Frank agreed. "We are just trying to ensure that the strongest parts of our culture are preserved—that the baby doesn't go out with the bathwater, so to speak."

"For many of our allies, it's hard to see what the baby is in the bathwater," Archie replied, his smile dropping as he looked between the two Longbottoms. "Why don't you tell me what you're looking for, really?"

Frank nodded again, letting out a sigh. "We are looking for a preservation of our status, of the nobility, once the war ends. We are one of the few nations in the world that still has an aristocracy, and we think it is one of our strengths. Noble children are raised specifically for governance—although many Lords and Ladies do have other employment, we are uniquely suited to sitting in the Wizengamot and passing law, while the principles of _noblesse oblige_ guide our moral obligations…"

Archie nodded, though he had stopped listening to the justifications. He had received a very light version of the same education as a child, though he had forgotten most of it, and Aldon had reviewed the main points with him anyway. Archie couldn't help but see its flaws—a noble oligarchy insulated those with power from the rest of the world and promoted long-term social inequality, particularly when combined with blood politics.

Judging from the Longbottoms' faces, though, Archie wondered how much Frank and Alice themselves believed. He had never talked to Neville himself, so he didn't know what sort of education Neville had received, though he knew that he and Harry had had highly pared down educations compared to most nobles.

After about four minutes, he thought that Frank had gone on for long enough, and cut him off. "I must respectfully disagree with you, Frank," he said genially, tilting his lips back into an affable smile. "Having been educated abroad, all I can see when you speak are my classmates who are excluded from Wizarding Britain by the laws passed by the Wizengamot."

"The blood purity laws are regrettable," Alice said instantly. "We've never been in favour of them—neither have most of the Light faction that we represent. We agree that they need to be repealed immediately, and Hogwarts once again made open to all. That has nothing to do with our governance."

Archie studied her for a moment, deciding not to point out that the Longbottoms themselves had twice voted in favour of blood discrimination: once in 1981, and again for the Marriage Law. "Respectfully, I disagree. Nobles are all historically wizarding families, and with the incentive to consolidate power, nobles are even more pureblooded than the average population. How can we possibly fairly make laws that affect the general population when those laws will rarely affect us? Muggleborns must be electable to the Wizengamot, and a voice needs to be put in government for the people."

"Perhaps a few more speaker roles could be added to ensure that the views of the people are heard," Alice conceded, her eyebrows pinching together in worry. "But the nobility is specifically educated for governance—"

Archie laughed a little. "I haven't been. Neither has Harry. Has Neville?"

"Well, we considered that there was plenty of time, as your parents likely did too," Alice replied with a small grimace. "Neville is third in line, and both the Lords Potter and Black are young. We do take your point, and a few more speaker roles, such as for Muggleborns, for the shifters, for major wizarding communities could be something that the Light faction would consider."

"One speaker role, among hundreds of noble seats?" Archie shook his head. "That's a drop in the bucket. That is not enough. To counter—the alliance would consider preserving the nobility in a ceremonial role, with all law-making and governance to be shifted to an elected Wizengamot. Nobles would be invited to campaign for election, the same as any other witch or wizard, and you would retain your title, key property holdings, and wealth. There would be no political privilege or advantage, with the rule of privilege replaced by the rule of law."

"That's…" Frank let the word trail off, exchanging a look with Alice. "I don't know how well the Light faction would handle that."

Archie shrugged, closing his notebook. Aldon had emphasized with him that there was no need to come to an agreement in one day—the new power differential meant that the former Light faction needed the alliance more than the alliance needed them. His own unconcern would also highlight, to the Light faction, that the alliance did not need them and that they would need to make real concessions for a deal. "Do you need to go back and discuss? We don't need to settle this today—we can meet again when it works for you. Grimmauld Place is more convenient for me than asking to borrow Uncle James' manor."

"Will your father, or the Lord Potter be joining us?" Alice asked, her tone only curious though Archie thought there was probably more to it than idle curiosity. "Or Lily—I do miss her."

"No," Archie said with an easy smile, standing up. "As I said, I am in charge of coordinating most of the allies, so negotiations are entrusted to me. Dad and Uncle James have their own responsibilities, and Aunt Lily is abroad fundraising and raising awareness. I'll walk you to the edge of the grounds, to a different Apparition point than before, and I'll look forward to your next owl."

It took three meetings, over almost a week, for Archie to hash out an agreement with the Longbottoms. On one hand, it was far easier than it had been over the summer. With only the two groups, Archie on behalf of the alliance and the Longbottoms on behalf of the former Light faction, he had been able to get to the point quickly. Indeed, most of the week had been consultations with their own people over what they might each accept. Frank and Alice Longbottom were also more sympathetic negotiators than the Lady Longbottom had been, so in the end they settled for division of the Wizengamot such that one-third of the seats would be held by the historic nobility, while the remaining two-thirds would be elected offices. No one had been entirely happy with the compromise, but it was tolerable, which was all that Archie could really have wanted.

At the end of February, he and Dad headed north to Scotland for the Clanmeet. There was a possibility the Clanmeet would call on them, so he and Dad had spent most of the last week preparing for any question that they thought the Clans might ask. His head felt filled to bursting—Dad took care of the notes for troops, likely future military manoeuvres, army numbers, safehouse numbers and plans, but Archie was responsible for fielding any questions about support, including intelligence, supplies, supply lines, the Healer corps, communications, and international aid. He had all the information in a folder under his arm, but he knew, he just knew that if someone asked him something, he would never be able to find the information in his folder fast enough.

The Clanmeet took place in a shallow bowl in the Scottish Highlands. The hillsides were dotted with stone benches, with a flat, stone table in the centre where the Clan Lairds and Ladies would sit. The hillsides were well-warded, with each of the eight Clans having invested time and power over centuries to guard their secret meeting place. A loch bounded one side of the bowl, the dark water glassy and still.

In late February, snow lined both the hillsides and the loch had been partly crusted over with ice. Archie shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around himself—having been at AIM in the American South for most of the past five winters, and being a Londoner, he had never really gone through a cold winter. He quickly traced a Heating Rune on his cloak, wishing that he'd thought to wear his AIM sweatshirt, the one with the integrated Heating Charm, rather than the wizarding dress that Dad and Harry thought would go over better.

The Clans weren't the Irish. They were open to a new world and wanted one, but they were far more integrated with Wizarding Britain than the Irish or the BIA. The primary effect of the exclusion laws, for the Scots, had been an influx of halfbloods into the Clans. Before the laws had come into effect, the Clans had existed as an outdated relic—they had been small, essentially family organizations. Some of the families were big, such as the MacMillans, but most of them had been small, like the Camerons or the Boyds. In total, the Clans had probably accounted for less than a third of the witches and wizards in Scotland.

With the passage of the 1981 reforms, however, the Clans had held the keys to Hogwarts—for those that swore fealty to the Clans. Halfblood families, where at least one parent had gone to Hogwarts and who had valued the experience, suddenly found themselves in a position where their children wouldn't receive the same education that they had had, unless certain measures were taken. Some English halfblood families, such as the Clearwaters, had moved to Scotland, integrating into the Clans. Clan membership swelled, especially for families traditionally associated with populated Muggle areas such as Glasgow and Edinburgh. Now, more than half of all mages living in Scotland belonged to a Clan.

Few visitors were allowed into a Clanmeet, and the bench that Quinn Cameron pointed him to, among the traditional Cameron seats, was icy cold. Archie brushed the snow off his seat and sat down, setting his folder on his lap. The cold of the stone bled through his cloak and trousers, and the wind blowing off the loch was brisk and biting.

It took many long minutes for the Clans to file in—the meeting wouldn't start until two in the afternoon, but Dad had thought that it would be best to arrive early to watch the Clans as they filed in. The Camerons were there early, seated behind them, their red-and-green tartans distinctive. To his left, he spotted Tobias Maclean sitting among the Boyds, their tartans green and black. Toby flashed him a quick smile and waved to him, before he turned to speak to the young man beside him. The Lady Ross came in wearing a black cloak quartered in white, taking a seat at the table for Clan Ross.

He didn't recognize the tartans well enough to be able to identify the other Clans as they came in. There was a group in yellow and black, another in red and black. A third group in red and green, but in different proportions than the Camerons; a fourth, a particularly large contingent, in blue and green. The smallest group, only a few rows of benches, wore blue and black.

Archie waited, shivering a little in the cold. Dad, sitting beside him, was tense—his eyes roved over the benches with caution, eyeing people as they walked in and took their seats. People were murmuring amongst themselves, but there were no smiles among them. A few people were crossing the aisles to speak to other Clans, but fewer than Archie had expected. For the most part, people were glaring at each other, not chatting.

"Something's off," Dad whispered suddenly, nudging him with one shoulder. "Everyone's wands are close to hand. Most people are wearing duelling holsters, and those that aren't keep checking their wand pockets. Look at the way Quinn is moving through the Clans, whispering—she's passing some sort of message along."

"The last time we were here, wands were drawn," Archie reminded him quietly. "Quinn says it's pretty normal for someone to draw their wand at these things. They don't get along at the best of times."

"That's true." Dad let out a slow breath, looking around again. "But this isn't like that. It's too widespread, there are too many people who are too prepared. Normally I'd expect a few hotheads in every group, but this isn't just the hotheads, it's everyone. Turn on your ACD, Arch, and get your ward up. How long does the ward last? Do we have one of Harry's Protection Potions with us?"

"Batteries are full—six hours?" Archie guessed, trying to remember what Chess had told him. "But I can turn it on, get the ward up, and turn the ACD off to save power. But if the ward falls, I'd need to turn it back on to get the ward up again. I have one of the Protection Potions, but I think—it'll make us look like we don't trust the Clans, it's too obvious."

Dad looked around, pensive, his lower lip caught between his teeth for a moment. "You're right. Get your ward up, then turn it off. If anything happens, hit the ground and turn your ACD back on—whatever happens, I think they're going to at least have a pretense of a meeting first."

"Okay," Archie agreed quietly, reaching for the device on his wrist. It was only a minute for his ACD to boot up, and his ward snapped into life around him thirty seconds later. He turned it off, looking around as the rumble of quiet murmurs and whispers died down.

Eight people were now seated at the table in the front—the eight Clan Lairds and Ladies. Unlike noble houses, Clan leader positions were not a matter of succession, but were won by power and skill. The eight people sitting in the centre of the bowl, around the stone table, were the strongest, wiliest, or most powerful of each of the Clans.

"Clans." The Lady Ross did not stand, but her voice carried around the Clanmeet anyway. "Despite the tardiness of certain groups, it seems that we're finally all here and ready to begin. Given the circumstances, I think we can put off other business until the spring Clanmeet. The sole issue we will be discussing today is our approach to the war against Voldemort. How do we step up our efforts?"

"We do as the Irish have done," a tall, broad-chested man said, leaning forward. His red-and-green tartan marked him as the Laird Cameron. "We make a strike for our independence. We deprive him of our territories, and with the support of our allies to the south, we keep them. We need to take land—that is how war works. Just defending our territories will get us nowhere if those in the south still believe they still own it."

"Now wait a minute," another man protested—one in yellow quartered in black. "We haven't decided on independence yet, have we? We have agreed to oppose Voldemort only, and in return there will be a referendum among all Scottish witches and wizards for independence. I remind you that not every Clan is in favour of leaving."

"MacLeod, it's only you and MacLaggen that are opposed," a thin, dark-haired woman with ice-blue eyes broke in. "The McKinnons are in favour of independence—as I understand it, only the MacMillans remain neutral. MacMillan?"

Everyone around the table looked towards a meaty man with a thick, bushy mustache, wearing blue and green. He didn't reply, his eyes flicking around the table, and Archie had the strong sense that he was watching the audience as well.

There was a laugh, as sharp as cut glass. A woman with snow-white hair, held in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, shook her head in disgust. "Even slower than the McKinnons, MacMillan."

"We consider it proper to take all the time necessary to come to a decision of this import," the Lady McKinnon replied tersely, though she was frowning intently. "That said, the MacMillans have had the same time as the rest of us to come to their position."

"The non-noble Clans against the noble ones, as always," the Laird Boyd said, with a smirk. Archie only recognized him by his green-and-black kilt. "What would it take, to get you lot on side? The Boyds are also in favour of independence. We note that if there is a time for a strike, it is now—Voldemort is distracted in the south, and the Ministry is short-staffed. They've pulled Aurors from the Edinburgh office to London, and the news reports over the past several months has led most of the English families to move out of our lands."

"We still have a land border to defend, Boyd." Lady Ross said, her voice low in warning. "And we still have more non-combatants than the Irish did."

"Getting cold feet, Ross?" The white-haired woman's voice was light, but there was danger in the tilt of her mouth. "I wouldn't have thought it of you."

"Careful, McAllister. I took you down in a duel once, and I'll do it again," Lady Ross replied. "I thought that it was worth reminding everyone that we are not the Irish. Even with the change in circumstances, we do not have a guaranteed victory, and it is far easier for Voldemort to pull his troops back from his siege and slam it to our forces instead. Easier, even, given how close Queenscove is to our border—barely a skip over."

"He's been engaged in his siege on Queenscove for weeks—do you think he'll be broken off that easily, Ross?" The Laird Boyd asked, leaning back in his seat.

"Heir Black? Perhaps you should address this matter," the Lady Ross said, turning a severe expression on him. According to Harry, she never looked anything less than severe, and Archie barely avoided tripping over his feet as he stood up.

"Voldemort is, er—" Archie cleared his throat, standing up and fighting the instinct to check in his folder for Aldon's written report. He knew Aldon's report, he didn't need to go searching for it. "Voldemort is stubborn. Our intelligence agents report that he can't bear to be seen as anything less than all-powerful—once he struck at Queenscove, he expected to win it, and pulling back with no victory is, for him, an admission of defeat. He won't pull back, not until Queenscove has fallen or unless he's forced to pull back to defend other territory."

"And is Queenscove close to falling?" The Laird Cameron looked at him, blue eyes serious.

"No." Dad stood up beside him, taking over. "Queenscove has considerable defences. While they are bottled in the fortress, neither is Voldemort close to breaching their walls. He wasn't prepared for a siege with magically-enforced Muggle fortifications, and did not bring ballista or have liquid fire prepared. We have taken steps to ensure that he does not have the supplies to create liquid fire. With the Portkey Hubs, and barring treachery, with a strong Lord at the helm, Queenscove can likely stand indefinitely."

"Then action in the north, especially in the northeast, will force him to withdraw to face us," a large man with shaggy blonde hair cut in, the first time he had spoken. "If Queenscove is fine, is it really wise for us to draw his attention?"

"If we're going to strike for independence, rather, this is the ideal time," the Laird Boyd repeated. "It will take time for Voldemort to pull his forces from Queenscove, gather the rest of his forces and throw them against the north. We could have taken half of Scotland, by then."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

"I see the Boyds and the Camerons are ready to fight," the Lady Ross said. "The McAllisters and McKinnons as well, and I will state for the record that the Rosses will fight with them. MacLaggen? MacLeod? MacMillan?"

"No." The Laird MacLaggen sighed, shaking his head with a disappointed grimace. "This is foolishness. The MacLaggens are a small Clan—we are not prepared for war, and we never will be. We don't have the numbers of the rest of you."

"I do believe that is your fault, MacLaggen," the Laird Cameron growled. "How many halfblood families close to your ancestral lands have the rest of us taken in, because you refused to abide by the Clanmeet resolution of 1982? Your Clan has always ridden on our coattails—you do not deserve your position, or is it that you have always been envious of the English succession laws, and are afraid of a halfblood fairly taking your title from your son?"

The Laird MacLaggen's face twisted, and he looked ready to draw his wand, but the Laird MacLeod interrupted.

"You cannot proceed to bring war onto our lands without a unanimous vote," the Laird MacLeod said evenly, ignoring MacLaggen beside him. "Voldemort would come against all Scots, not just your Clans. Those rules have been set in stone for centuries—war with England is always paid for in blood."

"Sometimes, MacLeod, that price is worth it for what we might win." The Lady McKinnon tilted her head slightly, staring at him with her strange, too-light eyes. "Have you forgotten that?"

"And sometimes, when a decision appears to be inevitable, it is better to go with the flow than it is to fight it." The Laird MacMillan sighed, throwing a look of warning at his own people—Archie spotted several of the people in the green-and-blue tartan tensing, exchanging looks. "MacMillan will not stand in the way of a majority vote. If the non-noble clans wish to strike for independence, Clan MacMillan will be with you."

"MacMillan!" The Laird MacLeod barked, his forehead creasing in surprise. "Are you really—"

"Look around you, MacLeod!" The Laird MacMillan waved one hand around him. "Feel the temperature of the other Clans! The non-noble Clans are already prepared to spend blood, and they're prepared to kill us alongside Voldemort if they have to!"

Archie heard a rustle of movement, his only warning before Dad grabbed the back of his cloak and shoved him face-first onto the ground, pushing him almost underneath the bench. For a second, he couldn't hear anything, just a loud roaring with a stampede of feet, cries and screams, and then words started sorting themselves out from din. Spells—attack spells, shield spells, hexes that Archie didn't recognize. He had never been very good at Defense, and he huddled down a little closer to the ground.

"Stay down," Dad hissed at him, sitting in the snow in front of him, his wand moving to set up shields. "I don't—"

Dad hesitated, cautiously looking up over the bench, then he cursed.

"We're in a bad spot, Arch," he said quietly. "Not quite the middle of it, but most of the Camerons behind us are involved and throwing spells. We're likelier to get trampled if we try to move out of it, so just stay here, and stay quiet."

"Is this going to last long?" Archie asked, trying to look around Dad's bulk to see what was happening.

"No." Dad shifted, trying to cover his view. "Arch, I don't want you to see this. Shut your eyes—it's going to be a massacre. They planned this—they wanted to do the strike for independence, and to hell with internal dissenters."

"Dad, I'm going to have to provide first aid when it's over." Archie said reasonably, squishing to move into a better position. There wasn't any room for him to move into a better position. "My Healing Oaths mean I have to. Is it like last time?"

"No." Dad's voice was final. "Last time it was just a few hotheads. This time, it's—well."

"Well?"

"Well, the Lairds MacLaggen and MacLeod are already dead," Dad replied grimly. "And Professor McGonagall is in the thick of it instead of trying to stop it."

Archie didn't reply, instead listening to the yelling, the screaming, and the heavy footfalls on the crunch of snow. He heard cracking, like some had taken the fight onto the ice, and there was an empty roar, wind and movement and maybe fire. He could smell fire—not woodsmoke from a fireplace, not even like the fires he was familiar with from a Potions lab, but something with the sharp, tangy scent of magic. People were throwing fire at each other.

Through the gap between Dad's shoulder and the stone bench, he could see feet moving, cloaks dragging on the ground and the flash of multi-coloured lights. He caught sight of a wisp of smoke, but it didn't look like any of the fire spells were catching. It was probably too cold and wet for anything to catch, so the fire he saw was mostly being thrown as a weapon.

It felt like ages that he was curled up under the bench—long enough for his muscles to start cramping, long enough for the cold of the snow and earth and stone to seep into his bones. He couldn't get his wand out—he had gotten his ACD up and active, but in the close quarters he found himself, he just didn't have the space to draw his wand. Instead, he traced a fire rune in the ground, channelling it with his magic. He was pretty sure it was the only thing that kept his fingers from frostbite.

In reality, it was probably less than twenty minutes before he started hearing people screaming their surrender. Without the Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen, their Clans were probably not just taken unawares, but had been without leadership while fighting. When Dad finally heaved himself off the ground, reaching one hand to help Archie out from under the bench, Archie was steeling himself for the worst.

The Clanmeet grounds didn't disappoint. The snow wasn't white anymore, but a churned, dirty mix of red, black, and grey. Archie swallowed, looking towards the central table—the Laird MacMillan was directing the bodies of the Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen be laid out on the shore of the loch, while the Lady Ross was watching as a mix of people wearing the tartans of Clans Cameron, Ross, Boyd, and others lined the remainder of the two clans up.

There were bodies on the ground—not as many as Archie had feared, but still bodies. He handed his leather folder to Dad, drawing his wand and heading for the bodies.

"He's a Healer," he heard Dad saying to someone. "He has his Oaths, let him see to the bodies."

Archie wasn't the only one—he could see several others that he didn't recognize making their way forward. Another group stayed among the Clans that had led the attack, checking for the minor wounds, and a third went towards the ones being lined up as prisoners. The still bodies, though, were the people who were injured badly enough that they could not help themselves, or they were the dead.

The first one he came to was dead—a boy close to his own age, a recent graduate of Hogwarts, if Archie had to guess. The boy's eyes were glassy, empty, and Archie could see that whatever had hit him, it was too late. He shut the boy's eyes and moved on.

The next body was breathing shallowly, bleeding out. Archie shook his head, reaching in his bag for his emergency potions and pulling out a Blood Replenishing Potion before he started working. A distant part of his mind reminded him that he only had three Blood Replenishers, and that there could be people who needed it more.

But if he tried to go and do a full triage, this person would bleed out, so he started working and tried not to think about it too much. He didn't want to think about what had happened—he didn't want to ruminate on the fact that the Clans had effectively turned on themselves, killing their own to see that the majority got their way. He could hear the Lady McAllister asking who would step forward to act as the new Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen, and to ask whether they would support a strike for independence.

The question was a loaded one. There was no chance that anyone would say otherwise—not when at least five Clans had voted with their wands soundly in favour of independence. He tuned her out, throwing himself into the Healing. Someone had stepped forward, acting as a triage Healer, and someone else pulled out more Blood Replenisher Potions, and he was soon working shoulder-to-shoulder with several Scottish Healers that he barely knew.

The skies had grown dark before he finished. There were fewer dead than he could have expected—only eight people had fallen, but few in the two targeted Clans had escaped injury. At least, he thought, there was that. Not too many people had died, but even the eight people that had been killed had been a waste.

But it wasn't his place to say that. Clan politics were not his politics.

"Ready to go?" Dad asked roughly, many hours later, wrapping him in a tight, warm, hug. Archie pressed his face into Dad's shirt, breathing in the warm, slightly smoky scent of Dad, and Dad patted him on the back. That pat held more understanding and reassurance than words ever could, and he breathed out a long, heavy sigh. Not relief, not sorrow nor exhaustion, but something like all three, maybe. "We need to go and report to the rest of our allies. They'll be mobilized and ready to act within the week, so we need to get going."

"Yeah," Archie said, pulling away and shaking his head quickly. "Yeah. Let's go. People have been expecting this, so we can start meeting as early as tomorrow."

Fortunately for them all, the plans for the event that the Scots struck for independence had already been made. A few words to Lina, Moody and Uncle James, and Moody was up in the Scotland for most of the next week finalizing coordination plans and helping the Clans with their own plans. Lina was drowning in safehouse defence reviews, assessing exactly how many units could be pulled off defensive duties at the safehouses to be sent north, while Uncle James went through their ally families both new and old to solicit support and to pick the units that would go north.

Mobilization moved as quickly as possible, but slower than anyone wanted because it had to be quiet. There were no mass Portkeys—instead, small groups slipped through the Portkey Hub network, several times a day, to the various Clanhomes. Sixty witches and wizards, the most that the safehouses in the south could spare, went north, as well as the one Order unit to handle the vampire threat.

Archie stayed behind, at Grimmauld Place, as Dad went north. As the Black Heir, he couldn't do anything else—one of them had to stay, and Archie could coordinate communications as well from Grimmauld Place as anywhere else. Similarly, Harry had been left in charge of Potter Place, and clearly Uncle James was nervous because Leo had been left with her in charge of the single unit that had been left for them.

Archie didn't even have that. He had half a unit under Kingsley Shacklebolt, and in the event that Voldemort found the troops to strike at Grimmauld Place, his orders were to get the hell out and blow up the manor. They could take the loss.

XXX

The Queenscove walls were as high today as they were the day before that, and the day before that. The height of the walls themselves never changed, and neither did the height of the blocky, triangular structures that dotted the land around them. He didn't know what they were called, nor did he care, but they were clearly some sort of defence. There were six of them, forming a star around Queenscove, forcing His Lord Madman into splitting their forces as they approached the fortress.

The dips formed by the structures and the sheer, imposing walls were deep, shadowed. More than two weeks into the siege, and it also stank—of still, stinking water, of the human waste that was thrown over the walls at them daily, of the burning pitch that seemed to be tossed at them every few days. They liked fire, the Queenscoves—fire came at them at some point every day, counterbalancing the icy, freezing cold winds that seemed to hit them every night.

Now, if only the fires came at the same time as the winds, that would be ideal. Strangely, they never did.

Most of the army was clustered around one of the several fires that dotted the landscape. As the sun set, it got colder, and even First Citizen Lunatic didn't like leaving the warmth of a fire. Neither did the Ice Bitch, though Caelum couldn't help but find some amusement in that fact. Parkinson was so cold that he always thought that the cold would be her natural element, but she could always be found in a prime spot close to a fire after dusk fell. Usually, close to the psychopath himself.

Caelum didn't linger near them. After seven years in Durmstrang in the north of Russia, the cold that swept them every night was little different than the cold that he had lived in for the entirety of his schooling. As a result, he drew the night watch more often than not, and he didn't care because the less he saw of the madman and his lieutenants, the better.

He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head to follow it. A man, barely visible in his dark clothes, was stealing over the heather towards the fires. He wasn't trying to hide himself and moved with far too much confidence, so Caelum doubted it was the enemy. Indeed, the pronounced limp told him clearly from a distance exactly who was approaching the camp.

Caelum drew his wand and slipped after him anyway. He had to be seen doing his job, after all, and he couldn't even deny that he liked this part of his work. Liked, in the sense that he didn't dislike it, in the sense that he wasn't torturing someone and that any part of his work that didn't involve torturing people was pleasant in comparison. He fired a non-verbal Trip Jinx at the shape, and Rookwood went down hard in the dirt.

"What have we here?" Caelum asked, his lip curling in disgust. Not that Caelum felt anything whatsoever for Rosier, but Rookwood had once been Rosier's closest friend, and yet it had taken surprisingly little for the man to turn. Even before Voldemort had risen, Caelum himself had used Rookwood as a second in his ill-fated duel against Rosier. The man lying at his feet was pathetic, and Caelum couldn't resist levelling a kick at him. "Rookwood."

"I need to see Voldemort," Rookwood spat, staggering as he pulled himself to his feet. "I have information."

Caelum snorted, holding back a sarcastic comment or two on his personal thoughts about Rookwood. Primarily, that the man was a weak, yellow-bellied coward, or that he was a dirty, two-faced bastard, or that he was a pathetic son of a bitch and should stay crawling in the dirt where he belonged. The man was turning into a perfect trigger, which Caelum sorely needed the closer he stayed to Voldemort.

"What is it?" Caelum asked, because he had to ask. Anyone would ask, and he would stand out if he didn't ask, but more importantly he had the ability, now, to get an early sense of whether this information would be damaging or not.

There was also the possibility that Rosier had planted information, but Caelum didn't think he'd know planted information from real information. It was just better that he remain above the curve, so to speak.

"I said it was for Voldemort, not for you, Lestrange," Rookwood snapped, pushing his way past Caelum with a hard shove. Caelum staggered backwards, cursing—Rookwood had at least three stone on him, so while Caelum thought he could take Rookwood in a magical fight, a physical fight was not in his interests. Rookwood stalked off to the main fire, around which Lord Nutter and his lieutenants were circled.

Caelum paused, looking around the dark, rocky lands, the imposing fortress with its mage-lights lining the walls and triangular fortifications on the outside. It looked quiet, so he could afford to eavesdrop—indeed, Nutcase and his lieutenants would likely think less of him if he didn't. _Blyat_.

"Ah, Rookwood," Voldemort said, spotting him and gesturing for him to approach. "What news, friend?"

Rookwood's jaw tightened at the last word. "Dorian Prewett caught me when I was at Rosier Place. The Scots are planning a revolt with the assistance of the resistance. They're expecting to strike next week, in the north-east—away from the heartland where they have more support from the people."

"Prewett. I haven't heard from him in months," Voldemort replied, his voice light and considering. "I thought he had been identified."

"I could not say." Rookwood's face was blank. "I would not know."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Voldemort laughed, the sound high-pitched and somehow uncharacteristic. The sound grated on Caelum's nerves, chilling him, even if it should have been laughable rather than unnerving. "Edmund Rookwood, who knows nothing, sees nothing, and thinks nothing."

Parkinson, wrapped in a white fur cloak that Caelum had no doubt had been stolen from someone else, let out her own laugh, while Rookwood stayed stiffly, stubbornly still. Not even a twitch, and Caelum suppressed an annoyed sort of respect within him. He could not respect Rookwood—not even a little.

If Rookwood had been smart, he would have gotten the hell out of Britain while he still could. He would have taken the four or five months where he and his idiot wife had been largely ignored, and made a run for it. And he hadn't, so he was a coward, and any other feelings would be nothing but weakness. Any feeling other than hate, powerful hate, was too dangerous for Caelum to feel.

Voldemort looked up at Rookwood, his dark blue eyes widening. Even if Voldemort was sitting and Rookwood standing, it was clear enough where the power lay. Rookwood's breath shortened, and Caelum knew that Voldemort was in his mind, seeing the interaction for himself; a few seconds later, Rookwood tore himself away, clutching at his head.

"It seems to be good information," Voldemort said finally. "Certainly, based on the way that Prewett pulled Rookwood aside and his own nervousness, Prewett knows he is being tracked. Likely, while Rosier has made his suspicions known, he is not fully trusted. Even Rookwood thinks his friend is too flippant, too distant, to be fully trusted."

"The Rosiers are a historically Dark house," Parkinson added, her voice delicate, hiding the iron within her. She wore an amused smile on her lips, but there was nothing warm about it. Caelum had not named her the Ice Bitch for nothing. "Whatever his blood, Rosier would have difficulty overcoming historic Dark prejudice. A Light House like the Prewetts would be more inclined to believe their Heir than Rosier's word, especially given Rosier's age."

Voldemort smirked. "That is their failure, then," he said, leaning back. "McNabb, have the Auror contingent in London shipped north to Edinburgh immediately—while the so-called resistance might have to hide their movements, we certainly don't. We'll arrest the lot of them as they move."

"That may be harder than you believe, Voldemort," Zajac, one of their two Stormwings, said, sounding coldly clinical. "How are they moving? Portkeys? Mass Apparition?"

"Portkey Hubs," Rookwood said, swallowing and looking away. "I've heard comments at Rosier Place. Nothing concrete."

"Portkey Hubs would explain much," the other Stormwing, Ozturk, muttered with an annoyed shake of his head. "Explains how Queenscove continues to have pitch to throw over the walls, and why their defenders never seem to be exhausted. Forget the barrier, they're getting supplies in through their Portkey Hub and their troops are being rotated. This siege has been a useless exercise."

Voldemort glared at the two men, but if there were any two men who were untouchable, it was the Stormwings. They were paid, and they did their jobs of planning war, but they were outside the usual command. Both had made clear that if either of them were touched by any of Voldemort's enforcers, they would be gone, no matter the money paid to them. They were not loyal, and they were not expected to be. In any case, Dolohov had said that torturing a Stormwing did no good—they were acclimated to it, and when they hit their breaking point, they apparently entered a berserker phase and killed anyone and everyone around them before returning to normal.

"Clever of them, though," Zajac added, his voice thoughtful. "I hadn't thought they'd have the expertise. Setting up a network of Portkey Hubs is no small task. But that means their troops have an easy way north, and they're likely transporting right into fortresses much like this one." He tilted his head towards Queenscove.

"Is it possible to break into their network?" Voldemort asked, a look of distaste crossing his face. From watching him over months, Caelum knew that the mere fact that he had to ask was difficult for the psychopath—Voldemort needed to be in control all the time, both all-powerful and all-knowing.

"Not without knowing the runic shortcodes they have chosen." Ozturk shook his head. "And not without being accepted by the receiving Hub. Not likely."

"Your suggestion, then," Voldemort snarled, his anger a tight, coiled spring.

Zajac shrugged, looking at his compatriot. "We would need the runic short-codes to even begin, but Portkey Hubs require both a request by the initiating Hub and acceptance by the responding Hub. The responding Hub can deny access. If we knew the extent of the network and had the manpower, I would suggest hitting all of them at once, maybe, but that would depend on the extent of the network, their locations, their defences… we do not have enough information."

"Our other contacts said nothing about these Hubs," Parkinson said, tilting her head in consideration. "Perhaps they are not as widespread as that."

"Without information, we can't tell." Zajac shrugged. "Our suggestion would be to retreat from Queenscove, to bring as many troops north as possible, and to meet them and arrest when they make a move. We still have the benefit of legitimacy—we can openly move troops north and impose martial law. That will make it easier to identify insurgents and respond."

There was a silence, and Voldemort's eyes flickered with anger and madness. The last, Caelum recognized very well, since it was in his mother's eyes almost any time he looked at her. He tensed, wondering whether the Stormwings saw it too and just didn't care, but the moment passed.

"Your advice is sound. McNabb, have the Department of Justice issue a martial law order to restrict movement in Scotland, and ship any units not otherwise engaged north." He looked around at the numerous fires dotting the landscape and scowled, his face a mask of suppressed rage. "We will pull out of Queenscove in the morning and go north as well. Lestrange!"

_Dermo!_ Caelum scrambled to get in character—he glared at Rookwood, reminding himself of Rookwood's cowardice and weakness, then at the Ice Bitch, who was nothing except beautiful and cunning and yet somehow had won such a position of power in Voldemort's circle. He hated Rookwood. He hated them. He was Caelum Lestrange, and he hated everyone, and everything, and there was nothing in him except hate.

Hate was so tiring.

"Lestrange, I know you're there." Voldemort's voice held a hint of stern impatience. "Come out—we must talk."

No time. Russian. He was Caelum Lestrange, schooled abroad, and Russian would be a quick defence while he got his emotions in order. _Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob._

He walked forward, into the centre of the firelight. Rookwood was still there, and he averted his eyes quickly. Caelum's lip curled—the man was so easily cowed, it was pathetic. He looked up at Voldemort.

"_Sto ya v borsch nasal, sto li?_" He asked, and he heard Zajac's sharp laugh behind him. Voldemort glared at Zajac.

"He asked, what, did he shit in the soup?" the man said, still chuckling. "That's all."

"Language, Lestrange," Voldemort warned. "There are women present."

Caelum's eyes flickered to Parkinson. It was hard to imagine that she counted as a woman—she was beautiful, yes, and the shape was right, but he thought she had more in common with a selkie. Or a siren, or a Veela—any number of the extremely dangerous things that happened to be shaped like a woman but were unequivocally not. Underneath the beautiful exterior, there was nothing but cruel machinations and rot. He hated her, and he wondered if he should risk responding to the comment and telling the harpy exactly what he thought of her. Alone, he would likely have done so, but before Voldemort, perhaps not.

"A good decision, Lestrange." Voldemort growled, staring at him, and there was a piercing pain in his head as the man ruffled through his head. Anger, anger, anger and hate—Caelum had many memories of pain, and he held them at the forefront of his mind. He was angry, at everyone and everything, at the world that had given him his mother and sent him to Durmstrang. He was angry at Durmstrang, where he had been no one, and he was angry at Wizarding Britain, of which he would always be a bit of an outsider no matter his talents. He hated everything, everyone and everything, that had given him the life that he had led.

"And Rosier?" Voldemort asked, and Caelum scowled. He hated Rosier. Rosier had humiliated him in front of his peers and had stolen a life-debt from him. He wanted to pay Rosier back for that very much, because if there was a low point in his life, that duel had counted for it. He hadn't even wanted to duel, not really—he had very much preferred to simply walk away, but he had been shoved into it, and things had ended up as they had ended up.

He wanted vengeance on Rosier. He hated Rosier, and he wanted to kill him, and he _hated_ having the life-debt hanging over him.

"I see," Voldemort said, nodding. "And you're loyal to me, Lestrange?"

Caelum glared at him. "As much as any one of your lieutenants can be loyal to you, I am," he said in a clipped voice, filling his head with red hot rage and black hatred to cover any hint of anything else. "I think that every one of us is here for something. My charming mother is a sadist and she is loyal because you provide her with room to spread her talents; Parkinson there is loyal because you give her hope for a future that she could not have had otherwise. I am here because I want vengeance—is that so different than anyone else?"

"I suppose not." Voldemort's thin lips flickered into a small smile. "Well said, Lestrange. Return to your patrol, and I will be sure to keep you in mind for greater responsibilities later."

Caelum bowed, a short bow whose degrees he didn't bother counting, and walked briskly out of the centre of firelight.

He was more than a hundred feet away, well out of the range of any fires or mage-lights, before he allowed himself to collapse on the ground, shaking. His knees were weak, weaker than the Occlumency that he had never truly mastered and that he had only just managed to pull to cover his espionage. Had Voldemort found out he was a spy, he would be dead.

No, he corrected himself. He would not be dead, not yet. He would have been handed over to his mother, and she would have spent many long days making him scream and give up every piece of information he had ever passed along, and he would die only when she had been satisfied. Given the relationship between him and his mother, that could be weeks, unless she slipped. If it ever happened, he could only hope that she would slip.

It had been close, too close. Voldemort had never questioned him so deeply before. Caelum rather thought that the maniac saw a bit of himself in Caelum, in his rage and anger and hatred, enough that he had never thought to use his considerable Legilimency to question him before. Caelum's Occlumency was not enough, and more than that, Caelum didn't think better Occlumency skills were the answer.

If he learned better Occlumency, it would be suspicious. A good Legilimens knew when their target had Occlumency shields, and the mere fact that Caelum had learned more Occlumency would be a red flag. What he had right now was what he had, and he had anger, and hatred, and a burning conviction that even if he hated Rosier and all of Rosier's allies, even if he wanted revenge on Rosier for his humiliation at the duel, he still wanted to live in Rosier's future more than Voldemort's.

He just wanted a Potions lab. He wanted his own Potions lab, and the peace of a bubbling solution in a cauldron in front of him. He wanted to spend his life brewing in quiet, without anyone or anything interfering.

Rosier would give him that, and Voldemort never would.

He had to get rid of the life-debt—or, rather, the life-debt was gone on his espionage, but he needed something, an obvious event, that he could tell Voldemort the life-debt had been spent on. The life-debt was a flag, and it was the point where he was most likely to be caught, because it was the obvious point that Voldemort would come back to over, and over, and over again. But once convinced the debt was gone, Voldemort would leave that the life-debt alone, and it would be one less thing that Caelum was likely to be caught out on.

And he needed a suicide spell. A strong one, because he refused to live through even a single day of torture. Rosier owed him that much, for all the information he had passed so far and which he would continue to pass while the war went on.

XXX

Draco had killed a man.

He dreamed about it often—his memories putting him back in the sculpture garden at dawn, his own fear and anxiety swirling around him, the cold sweat collecting on his palms as he waited for signal to attack. The emotions of the troops had roiled around him, tension and nervous anticipation, but the fear had been all his own. He had been frightened, but unable to show it in the face of the stoic unit to which he had been assigned. The half-vampires, in particular, seemed to feel nothing about the approaching action.

He had thought they would be more afraid. The part-vampires, with the exception of their Captain, were entirely Muggle, but they didn't seem to fear magic as he thought they would. Or that they should? He wasn't sure.

But they hadn't been afraid, and Rosier had opened the rear action by dropping two men without a single flash of magic. A gun, Draco understood—a Muggle weapon, which turned out to be much more deadly than Draco could have ever imagined. He hadn't known that Muggles had weapons of such destructive power.

Rosier had killed two before Professor Moody had given the signal for the half-vampires around him to engage. Draco didn't have a firearm of his own, and he had flinched at the sound the Muggle guns had made—loud cracks that were unlike anything Draco had ever heard before. Like the crack of Apparation, but louder and more frightening than Apparation could ever be. The noise was terrifying, and even more so because Draco could not _see_ death coming.

No flash of green light, nor the white light of _Retexo_. A bullet travelled faster than a spell, and Draco couldn't imagine how fast he would need to move to dodge it. If one levelled a gun at him and fired, all of Draco's carefully honed footwork would do little. His reflexes to shield would do little in the face of a tiny metal projectile that could cover hundreds of feet in a second. All he could do was drop to the ground with his hands over his head and pray that whoever had fired the weapon had poor aim.

The Killing Curse he had readied was fueled in equal parts desperation and fear. He had wanted to kill—he could not have cast the spell without the intention to kill—but his desire to kill had been born not of cold-hearted certainty and determination but simple, clean, fear. He readied the spell to kill because he didn't feel like he had a choice, because people were coming to kill him and between them and him he would choose himself.

But when the enemy had struck, after he had unleashed his own spell on some unwitting man that he thought had probably once worked for the Ministry, he had realized—the people coming at them were just as frightened as him.

They were frightened, and desperate, and the air had been thick with spells and blades—for the most part, the half-vampires sheathed their guns for close-quarters combat and pulled out other weapons in a melee. Swords, for the most part, which struck Draco as somehow barbaric.

Though, so was his Killing Curse.

He had fought. Or, he had defended himself. He didn't know, but the minutes had passed in a blur, and at the end he was still alive and there were bodies on the ground. Including one that he himself had put there.

Harry had not been fussed, when he had met her and spilled the whole mess out to her. It was a war, she had said with a slight, one-armed shrug, and Draco had the strong sense from her that she didn't want to talk about it. She, too, had committed violence that morning, but she had smothered over her feelings with the stiff stoicism that Draco recognized well from Hogwarts.

It was what it was, and they were at war, she had said. Of course, Draco had to kill, because what would the consequences have been otherwise? She had probably killed that morning too, though she hadn't resorted to either the Killing Curse or the Unmaking Spell. She had just blasted people with her power, and that was more than sufficient.

She had never once thought that Draco's troubles ran deeper. She never once thought that Draco had seen himself in the enemy, or that he questioned his place with the resistance. She, with a faith that he wasn't entirely sure he merited, thought that he had joined the resistance because it was the right thing to do. Most days, Draco thought that she was right, but there were other days when he doubted.

Draco wasn't one of them. His beliefs weren't theirs, and he didn't want the world that they were trying to create. He had been raised in a world of pureblood supremacy and noble privilege, and he even believed that they were right.

Or did he?

Before the strike, Robin had said something to him—that people were complicated. People could be good people in some areas, and not in others. That being a good person didn't mean that everything one did was necessarily good, and that good people sometimes did bad things. What she meant was even clearer—the mere fact that his father had been a good father to him and a good husband to his mother didn't mean that he was a paragon of goodness. It didn't mean that his father hadn't done awful things, and maybe the laws that his father and Lord Riddle had pushed forward his entire life were wrong. Maybe there was no basis for them at all, and Draco had pushed forward a view of the world that wasn't just wrong, but had caused harm to one of his closest friends.

It wasn't like any of the other bases for pureblood supremacy held water. For months, the best he could have said was that his father and Lord Riddle wouldn't have pushed forward these beliefs unless they were true. But if they weren't perfect, if they weren't the bulwarks of good and right that Draco had always believed, then that meant absolutely nothing.

Maybe Draco could love and respect the memory of his father without needing to hold onto the other things—without needing to uphold pureblood supremacy, or noble privilege, or anything. Maybe nothing was sacred, and maybe all his avowed beliefs needed to be reconsidered. He didn't want to do it—there was nothing he wanted to do less—but maybe he owed it to himself, to his family, and to his friends to do it. How many beliefs had he swallowed on trust alone? What did he think, as opposed to what he had been taught?

It was a hard, thorny issue, and one that Draco was too tired to handle right now. Instead, he had found potentially the most inane book in the library, a courtly romance of some kind that he didn't recognize, and he was looking forward to drowning himself in something thoroughly, completely ridiculous for the evening. Something that required no thought at all, other than potentially the ability to identify literary nonsense.

There was a knock on the door to his quarters, and he cursed. Knocks on his door, whatever the hour, he had learned were never good. He considering ignoring it, but the knock came again, more insistent, and Draco cursed again as he rolled off the sofa.

"What?" he snapped, wrenching the door open and seeing Rosier about to knock again. "It's off-hours, and my eyes are squirrelly from book code. This better be important."

"My apologies," Rosier said, inclining his head slightly and waving a scrap of parchment, radiating tiredness, panic, and worry. "We have a problem."

Draco stared at him for a minute, then he scowled and waved Rosier in. From the man's tone, he needed to talk, and while Draco had no real interest in talking, he was interested in the scrap of parchment Rosier held in his hand. If it was something that Rosier had translated himself, it was high security—something that he had never been allowed before.

"Fine. What is it?" he asked, gesturing broadly to his sitting room. Rosier handed him the scrap of parchment, then fell into the open armchair with a deep sigh, sprawling with his leg over one arm. Draco raised an eyebrow in question.

"Francesca has all but moved into my quarters—I'd rather not let her see me like this," Rosier said by way of explanation, shutting his eyes. "In front of her, I try for nothing less than control and perfection. No panic, no messes, and no uncertainty. Good, steady husband material. Read the note, Malfoy."

Draco snorted, shaking his head and choosing not to tell Rosier that first, women were smarter than that, and second, that it would be a very sad thing indeed if he had to keep up a ruse of perfection his entire life. Instead, he looked down and skimmed the note—already translated out of book code and fairly straightforward, though it revealed one of Rosier's prized spies within Voldemort's camp.

Caelum Lestrange. Who would have thought?

"Lestrange needs to lose the life-debt," Draco said, folding up the note. "Voldemort is mobilizing northwards based on information from Rookwood, and he needs to lose the life-debt and gain a suicide spell."

"Edmund courtesy of the Heir Prewett, I think," Rosier corrected, his eyes still shut. "Their meetings at Rosier Place recently overlapped, and Lord Prewett was always skeptical of my assessment of his son as a Voldemort spy. He complied with the counter-intelligence protocols to a point, but the meeting with Edmund was not foreseen. There is also no life-debt anymore—I used it to force Vulture into his current role, but that isn't, of course, something that Vulture can reveal. No, we need to come up with another realistic ploy to make Voldemort believe that the life-debt has been used, and for me to give him the suicide spell."

Draco frowned, staring at the Lord flopped over in his armchair. "I don't see the difficulty? You're a Slytherin, Rosier—all you need to do is fake a meeting with Lestrange and he can let you go in payment of his life-debt. That's all."

"Not fake a meeting," Rosier replied, sounding grim. "I will need to meet with him, in person. Voldemort is likely to search his memories, and while Vulture has some Occlumency, a Master Occlumens he is not. He needs a real memory of capturing me, in which I will need to curse him with the suicide spell, and then he needs to appear to capture me and then he needs to appear forced into letting me go. It needs to be a plan known by others in Voldemort's camp that it isn't obviously staged, but an isolated enough meeting that we can do what needs to be done without interference or observation. It's more complicated than it looks, Malfoy."

"Not that complicated." Draco shook his head, setting the parchment on the low-lying table in front of his sofa. "We can make plans around all of these. What is this really about, Rosier?"

Rosier sighed, a long low, worried breath, and opened his eyes. "It means I need to leave Rosier Place."

XXX

_ANs: One of my favourite things about Aldon is that he's really not very well equipped for war. He's mostly survived to this point by avoiding getting into truly dangerous situations, so he basically hasn't left Rosier Place or the network of safehouses since the war started. Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm, indefatigable beta-reader, and to Tolya and his truly awesome list of Russian swears. As always, reviews and comments are fodder for more writing, so leave me a note! _


	14. Chapter 14

Neal was awakened by a loud banging on his door. He groaned, pulled his pillow out from under his head, and clapped it over his face.

It felt like he had just fallen into bed. He hadn't had a full night of sleep in nearly three weeks, and he felt the need for sleep dragging on him. He was still sharp—he couldn't afford to be anything except sharp—but he was crankier now, snappier, with less laughter and quite a lot more orders. And more headaches. If it wasn't for Yuki and his family, he was sure that he would have been a great deal worse.

The pounding came at his door again, this time with a shout.

"Neal! You're going to want to see this!"

It was Kel, who had the dawn watch. She was a natural early bird, so she always had the dawn watch, just as Neal always had the evening watch. They occasionally took day watch or night watch as well, but his mother and their Stormwings, who were in charge of planning the watch schedule, didn't like scheduling people on back-to-back shifts. Too long on shift made people slow and inattentive, and no one wanted an inattentive sentry. Especially not when they were under siege.

Queenscove Castle saw nothing amiss. It told him, quite cheerfully, that the wards were secure, its walls were unmolested, and the skies over the keep were clear. _It's a beautiful day_, the castle sang to him. _Warm, for the end of February—high of seven degrees, low of two. No rain today either, so won't you get up?_

I just went to bed at midnight, Neal snapped back at his castle, even as he pulled his head out from under his pillow. If Kel needed him awake to see something, she was probably right.

"What is it?" he yelled back, running his hands through his hair. It was getting long, falling into his face. He stumbled upright, the room swimming slightly, before he staggered to the door and wrenched it open.

Kel's first was raised, poised to rap again, but she lowered it seeing his face.

"They're leaving," she said, her hazel eyes feverish and alive. "Packing up their tents and moving out."

"What?" Neal's eyes widened, and he poked at the castle. Queenscove confirmed it—the intruders did, indeed, appear to be leaving, which only made the day more beautiful, didn't it? "How are we sure it's not a trick? An illusion?"

"We're not," Kel replied flatly with a shake of her head. "Rosalie told me to wake you, Ben, Graeme, everyone—they could be giving up, but she thinks there's a good chance that it's a trick. We need to get ready."

Rosalie was their trainee Stormwing, on Service. Even as a trainee, she was still more trained in war than Neal, so he drew in a deep breath and trusted her judgement. His castle might not think it was a trick, but Neal had long since worked out that his castle's sentience was somewhat childlike. It wanted to please him and to uphold certain ideas of what it meant to be Queenscove but second-guessing the actions of an army force on its grounds was not its strength.

"Fine." Neal sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Let's go wake everyone up."

It took half an hour for Neal to gather his closest friends, his family, and his advisors in his hall. The people sitting around the table had become, over the better part of three weeks, the leaders for the Queenscove defence, the ones upon whom Neal knew he could rely absolutely.

Benjamin Levstein, sworn _Faith,_ was their only fully-fledged Stormwing; considerably younger than either Lina or Moody, he was also quicker to smile for all that Neal had seen him hexing people attacking on brooms with brutal efficiency. Only about ten years older than Neal himself, Ben was a British halfblood who had trained at Ilvermorny and, since his own Stormwing training, spent many years in South America working on strategies countering magical smuggling. A _kippa_ covered the top of his head, fixed with a No-Maj clip.

Normally, Ben would have asked Rosalie to join in meetings, but instead he had left her in charge on the walls. Someone had to keep an eye on the enemy, he had said when Neal had woken him, and Rosalie had a good head on her shoulders. Stormwing training also included a grounding in illusion and compulsion magic, so one of them needed to be on the walls.

His mother was there, her dark eyes sharp as she tapped her fan on the table—a sure sign of her anxiety. His father sat beside her, his hair tousled and his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. He was in charge of the Healing ward established at Queenscove, and while they were fortunate enough not to have lost anyone in any of the assaults, neither had they gotten off scot-free. The acid-rain spell had caused widespread burns, especially for the first group on sentry duty who hadn't thought to shield themselves quickly enough, though the castle had weathered it well. There were also a dozen other injuries from other assaults, most of which had been addressed easily, but a few of which had required ongoing treatment. With his father here, Yuki was watching the Healing ward.

Graeme was sitting there too, his exhaustion and crankiness well-hidden behind a laconic smile. He had night watch, and therefore had had even less sleep than Neal. Fei had stood the night watch as well, but his cousin was scowling, obviously displeased to be awake so soon after falling asleep, though she alone seemed almost to be enjoying herself during the siege, spending years of pent up rage through arranging often-dangerous sneak attacks on the enemy. Dom was yawning widely, though Neal thought there was no reason why he should be so tired considering he always stood day watch and had no reason to be staying up late. Kel, the last one around the table, wore her tension in her shoulders—her expression was carefully poised, the way that Neal recognized from too many duelling matches. She was mentally gearing up for a fight.

They were all showing signs of strain. Unlike the units, those at the table had not been rotated out, so it had been almost three weeks of waiting for the assaults that came daily, on brooms or by sheer magical force. Regardless of whether he was on duty or off, Neal felt like he hadn't had a moment to rest since the morning he had been woken up by his castle, warning of approaching enemies. His family and friends no doubt felt the same.

"They're leaving," Dom said, blinking and breaking the silence. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"They have no reason to leave," his mother said, with a small shake of her head. "It does not make sense with our information from the Lord Rosier. Voldemort does not give up once he starts anything, he is too proud to know when to quit—he should have been here until he died. He has expended too much power setting up his Anti-Apparition ward to withdraw. This must be a trick."

"Voldemort might be a lunatic, but the people around him aren't." Graeme shook his head, looking for a moment like a mirror of his mother for all that he, like Neal, took strongly after their father. "We've seen it before, haven't we? An authoritarian like him shouldn't obey laws, for example, but he still waited to get warrants to hit us. He was convinced not to attack until he had it, either by one of Rosier's internal agents or just because it made sense. Maybe someone convinced him that this needed too many resources? While he's been tied up here, he hasn't been able to do much else."

"We should have bled them more," Fei muttered. Neal really had no idea why Fel was in Britain at all, other than that fact that she wasn't talking to her family again and didn't have anywhere else to be. "For the overall war effort."

"A little bloodthirsty, don't you think, Fei?" Neal threw out, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "If they're dead, they can't be striking elsewhere."

"It could be a trick," Ben interceded. "It could be a mass-scale illusion, meant to lure us into a sense of security."

"Should we prepare for a large-scale attack, then?" His mother asked, her voice deadly serious.

"But there was that evening attack the night before last—" Graeme said, then he shook his head. "I thought we had laid some serious injuries then. We know they don't have as many Healers as we do."

"A narcissistic psychopath wouldn't care," Ben said, with a small grimace. "If he thought he would win, he would go ahead with it, and damn the consequences. It could be a large-scale illusion, but my gut instinct says that is that this is something else—what have we heard from the others?"

"It's a go-ahead on the Scotland plan," Neal said, fighting a yawn. Most of Queenscove had been preoccupied with their present situation and while they received daily updates on the broader war effort, he had to admit that the details did not come to mind as quickly as they ought. "But they shouldn't know that—the wall they have up should seal them off as well as us."

"Sealing himself off completely would be a very stupid thing to do," Kel commented, tilting her head slightly. "I don't think he would be that stupid, and he's supposed to be a leader of a nation. He can't afford to seal himself off completely. He has to have a few gates—we just don't know where they are. Someone has to be going off to control the Ministry, his news has to be getting out to the _Daily Prophet_ somehow, and his informants need a way to report to him."

"Kel is right," Ben confirmed. "He almost certainly has several gates in his wall. If he were to have found out about our plans, it would be a reason for him to pull back. We should alert the others."

"If it's not a trick," his mother said, her words sharp. "We should also put the day watch on alert. They are the freshest of the units. Yuanren, you should fortify the magical defences."

Neal nodded, waving a hand in acknowledgement. His castle was still humming, content and convinced that the intruders were really leaving. Lord or not, he had long since given up on the illusion that he actually ran anything in his supposed household. It was his magic castle, his house-elves and his mother who took care of most things.

"Someone should also check the ravelins," Ben added, with a look around the table. "These mass illusions are easier to sustain if they limit where they are effective. We might see something different from the ravelins."

"I'll do it," Fei said instantly, as Neal expected she would. "I can check them all."

"No fire this time," Ben replied, with a stern glare. "Check only, then get back here and report. Understood?"

Fei made a face, but she didn't argue.

"And I'll take the Portkey Hub to Potter Place." Dom sighed. "I'll be quick about it."

The next few hours were slow and tense. The day watch was roused, and half the evening watch as well, and put on alert. Neal spent more time in meditation with his castle, forcing it to give him different perspectives of his grounds, but he didn't see anything different. Fei reported nothing different from the ravelins, though they were far enough away by then that she couldn't be sure if she would be able to identify an illusion to see it. Dom returned from Potter Place, shaking his head and advising that while the situation had been explained, the Lord Potter hadn't had any ideas that they hadn't already had, but suggested checking with Aldon in a few hours. There was always a delay between when a message was sent, the time that it took to be decoded, and then for the information to be passed around to the relevant people.

Three hours later, the enemy was gone. But Neal couldn't relax. Any moment could bring with it a report of a new form of attack, or news of a raid on another, less well-defended safehouse.

XXX

Chess' heart was beating too quickly, her hands shaking. She shouldn't be here—she couldn't believe that Aldon and his lieutenant Draco had talked her into this. It would be more believable, they had told her, if she were involved but she had no idea how she was supposed to carry off the con reasonably. She didn't like people on the best of her days, she hesitated too much when she talked, and even if Edmund was once Aldon's friend she was all too aware of the fact that he was also here on orders from their enemy.

There was so much else that she could and should be doing. Not all the units had been screened for ACD use yet—she and the others at Blake & Associates had been directed to to focus on units being shipped north to Scotland. The range of magical frequencies that they could make ACDs for was still limited, and she had been surprised that not everyone who matched for an ACD even wanted one. Some of the former Aurors were worried about how a new channelling method might throw off their tried and true wand-casting styles, while others just seemed to be suspicious of No-Maj technology generally. Given the limited number of ACDs they were able to make, Christie had simply advised Francesca to let it go. The ACD could go to someone else who would use it better.

It bothered her though, more than she would ever admit to anyone other than John. These people were going to war, and the ACD could save lives. It had protected John through the Tournament, it had probably saved Aldon's life more than once, and it had protected Archie at the Clan meeting where apparently everything had gone to hell. And so many people wouldn't accept it because it was new, because it was part-No-Maj. She had seen too many suspicious glances aimed at her and at her device, and that hurt. It hurt that people didn't want the device that she had poured everything of herself into for years.

Why was she even here, if not to make ACDs? She had no investment in the politics of another country, and while she sympathized with Archie and Hermione and especially Aldon, she wasn't one of them. She wouldn't be fighting, not if her ACD wasn't involved. And even with her ACD—if it wasn't for the fact that the Tournament had ended the way it did, with AIM's withdrawal, then she would have wondered whether a war was really the place to showcase her invention. But a war was what she had, and she _did_ want Aldon and Archie to survive, and if her invention was the technological edge that they needed to bring them to victory then, she supposed, that would be a good starting point. She had needed something big to bring her little device attention, something that would break the set ways of the wizarding establishment. She had needed something that would show the world that her ACD was the way of the future.

She wanted a world where ACDs were ubiquitous, where not having an ACD was completely unthinkable. She wanted wands to go the way of paper-casting—something that some people used, but not the default. Wands and paper-spells would become historic, outdated, respected in some quarters as art, but not the territory of everyday spell-casting. She wanted her glittering little device to become the default for all magic-users; she wanted to kick spell-casting into the new millennium, which was only a few years away. She wanted her name to go down beside her device for eternity.

The uses of the devices needed to be expanded. She had ideas for the theory behind how the ACD could be changed to include more spells. Right now, she was hard-wiring up to three spells, but in the long-term she would need to find a way to integrate memory and a better microprocessor into her device for a wider range of spells, which meant a better power source than the batteries they were using now. Then, the more spells they were able to load on, the better user interface they would need. She didn't want her device to be complicated, needing years of training the way a wand did. Dad had sent her a stack of books about graphical user interfaces from San Francisco, which were sitting in a stack beside Aldon's bed.

She wanted to be reading them. She wanted to be pushing the ACD forward, and not sitting in Aldon's private sitting room, mechanically doing a Gongfu tea ceremony for Aldon and his oldest friend. Even if it _was _a con.

"Isn't that right, Francesca?" Aldon said, bringing her into the conversation. Francesca had no idea what the rest of the conversation had been about. Was it something about her schooling? Or their supposed relationship? Who knew?

Not her, but in these things, Francesca figured it was best to just smile and agree. "Oh, um—yes, of course."

Aldon smiled indulgently, the exact sort of expression that Francesca normally tried to glare off his face. But it didn't match with the character that she was supposed to be tricking Ed with, supposedly, so she ignored it. Ed didn't know about the ACD, and he didn't know that Francesca was a paper-mage only, and it was best that it stay that way. Aldon turned back to Ed. "It wouldn't be proper to have children before we've had the formal wedding ceremony, anyway. I don't think Francesca's parents even know about us, yet."

Francesca fought a grimace, trying to keep her face blank. It had been a long time since she had been on a stage, and while she was nowhere near as expressive as Hermione or Archie, she also wasn't perfectly poker-faced. "It's hard to explain," she muttered, then her eyes dropped to the tray and she focused pouring the tea into the fairness pitcher. A critical step in tea ceremony, the fairness pitcher, to ensure the consistency of flavour.

"Muggle conventions are quite different to ours," she heard Aldon say quickly. "From what I understand, they marry quite a bit later than we do, and education takes longer. But please, enough about us—how about you? Tell me about you and Alice, about your Grand Tour of the world."

Francesca tuned them out again. Nothing that they would say was important—as far as Francesca had heard, Aldon had regaled Ed with a very entertaining and mostly fictional story of their relationship, the details of which Francesca was sure that she would forget. The way Aldon told it, it was almost like they had met, started stepping out before the end of that first summer, then had remained a steady couple except for their fight after the Ministry Unity Ball. In his turn, Ed, seemed to be telling them a long story about going on safaris to look for magical creatures around the world.

Francesca suppressed a shudder. Bubbles notwithstanding, she didn't like creatures. The further they stayed away from her, the better.

The war loomed huge in the room, hidden in the nooks and crannies and in between the smiles they all wore. The war was always present, of course, even when Aldon tried to keep it away from them on their dates, but not like this.

When she and Aldon were alone, they pretended the war was far away. They talked about the ACD, and she caught him up on the new changes and advancements they had made. Sometimes, they worked on her papers that she needed to publish for AIM credit, and often, they dreamed about the things that they would do when the war was over. Francesca still intended on going to No-Maj college, of course, and she thought Aldon was interested in studying for a Mastery in Magical Theory abroad and in seeing a little more of the world. She wanted to show him more of the world that she had come from, not just the movie theatres and the bookstores and the everyday that he knew from living in No-Maj London for a year, but the magic of places like Disneyland, or the wonder at an aquarium or science centre, or the mixed thrill and terror of a roller coaster. When it was just her and Aldon, the war existed, but they had an implicit agreement to talk about a future after the war.

With Ed, there simply was no war. Ed and Aldon talked as if the war was not an ever-present reality, as if it wasn't happening, as if it just wasn't there. They shared chitchat about their families, and no one ever mentioned that Ed's wife could not come visit because she was Voldemort's captive for his good behaviour. They talked about the past, reminiscing about their days at Hogwarts, about the grand Great Hall and the soothing Slytherin common room under the lake, but they didn't talk about Aldon's blood status or about the events that had brought them here. They talked about the future, but it was a very different future than the one that Aldon envisioned with her.

When Aldon talked about his future with her, it was a future where they worked side-by-side on the ACD. They travelled often to America, or Germany, or Switzerland, because Francesca couldn't imagine John and Gerry not staying together. In that future, she went to college, and Aldon went to do his Mastery somewhere—hopefully close to her, but they had managed long distances before. After the war, they would go to college and have years of hard work and fun, and they would travel the world to see wonders both No-Maj and wizarding. After the war, they would work more on the ACD, and they would bring magic into the modern age by releasing the first publicly available ACD together.

The future that Aldon talked about with Ed was very different. In that future, he and Ed settled down quickly, as two Lords of the nobility, and they would engage themselves in the political affairs of the day. Aldon would run his father's business, and Ed would find work with creatures, but they would both sit in the Wizengamot and pass law. Francesca and Alice would become friends, for all that Francesca was not sure she ever wanted to meet Alice, let alone befriend her, and their children would become friends, and Francesca would settle into the glamourous life of a Society wife and mother.

It sounded so horrific that, if it were real, Francesca would bolt for the window, jump out of it, and run without ever looking back.

Aldon and Ed didn't talk about Voldemort. They didn't talk about how there was no future in which the one they laughed about would ever happen. They didn't talk about the world around them, or about the battles even now sweeping through Scotland.

The first strikes had begun more than a week ago—Lina, Moody, the Lord Potter, Sirius, and a coalition of the Clans had taken the outlying Shetland Islands with barely a fight. The Orkney Islands had come a little harder, with Voldemort unleashing most of his Dementor forces, but the terrain and the local population had favoured the Clans so that victory had come a few days later. Even now, ten days later, there was pitched fighting through the Hebrides—while most of the population didn't support Voldemort, the dragon-keepers on the reservations did and fighting there had raged for two days so far. According to Rolf, who had come by to consult, dragons didn't have the sentience to decide whether to fight in a war. Only a few would have enough of a bond with their dragon-keepers to fight by their side, but unfortunately, even one Hebridean Black was a horrifying asset for the enemy.

She breathed a deep, silent sigh, glancing at the teacups on the table. Mostly empty, so she reached for the fairness pitcher and filled them up again. She didn't mind doing tea ceremony—for the Chinese, and of the tradition she had been taught, it was just a way to greet guests. It would have been perfectly normal for her to carry on conversation while she broke tea off the teacakes, checked the water chemistry and the temperature for the best cup of tea, checked the aroma of her brew, and poured. But Ed wouldn't know that, and Francesca was fine with speaking as little as possible.

How long had it been, already? Enough for two teapots, while Aldon tried to learn things from Ed from his silences and meaningless anecdotes and Ed tried to do the same. Time enough, she thought, for Draco to show up and set the plan in motion.

It took another teapot before the knock came at the door. Aldon stood up with a quick smile, excusing himself, while Francesca emptied the teapot of spent tea leaves into her clay waste bowl. Draco stayed out of sight, as intended, and it was only a second before Aldon came back.

"I must excuse myself for a few minutes," he said, with an apologetic inclination of his head. "There is a matter that needs my attention. I hope it will not take long. Francesca, would you…?"

Francesca nodded stiffly. "Y-yes. Of course."

He smiled again, leaned down to peck a kiss on her cheek, and disappeared out the door.

Silence fell.

In theory, Francesca was supposed to keep Ed entertained for fifteen or twenty minutes or so. In practice, she had no idea what she was supposed to say. Aldon had told her quite a lot about Ed, but she had only met him for a few brief minutes at the ill-fated Ministry Unity Ball the year before.

He was taller than she remembered. Or, maybe it was less that he was taller, but he had been more broad-shouldered and muscled at the Ministry Unity Ball, larger than even John or Gerry. He had obviously lost a lot of weight, and he now had a gaunt look to him. She had seen him walking, so she knew that he had a limp which she didn't remember from the Ball, but he didn't use a cane. There was no smile on his face, and his black eyes watched Francesca with consideration.

He looked so old-fashioned now, compared to Aldon. He wore his hair long, tied back with a ribbon, and his robes were floor-length deep green. If Aldon looked like he had walked out of the 1920s or the 1930s, Francesca would have placed Ed in eighteenth century, if eighteenth century fashion had included long robes. There was something about the trim, or maybe it was the way that Ed talked and moved, that brought her further back.

Aldon had dressed like him in the beginning too. Somehow, those days seemed longer ago than they were.

She was supposed to be making conversation.

"How—how do you like the, um, tea?" she stammered, reflexively checking his cup. It was still full.

"Fine." Ed was expressionless, and silence reigned for another few minutes. Francesca busied herself with the tea tray, this time soaking the bottom with the waste water so that the whole tray would be the same pleasing shade of brown.

"You do that very well," he said, a minute or so later. He gestured to her tea ceremony set with a hand. "I haven't seen it before."

Francesca nodded, short and sharp. "My—my grandmother made me learn. She said—said that knowing how to make good tea was—was a sign of a good education. And that it would—would help me in the future."

"I see." Another pause. "And did it?"

There was something else behind the question, something barbed that stuck underneath her skin and rubbed on her. She didn't know what it was and couldn't have described it if she tried, but somehow she knew the question hadn't been meant kindly. She had no idea what he was trying to ask her.

"I don't—I don't understand what you mean," she replied, looking back down at her tea tray. She could always rearrange the various bowls and pitchers. The teapot, of course, then the fairness pitcher, the aroma cups, the teacups, and the tiny dragon tea pet that she poured tea over for luck. The waste bowl that held her used tea leaves.

"I imagine that a skill like that was very attractive to Aldon." Ed's voice was pointed. "He is a wealthy man. Noble."

"He wasn't when I met him." Francesca looked up sharply, offended at the implication. "When I met him, he had been newly disowned."

Ed wore a small, hard smile. "All the better to target. Or is there more to you?"

Francesca fell silent, feeling as if she had taken a misstep. Aldon had warned her that not to say anything of any importance whatsoever to Ed. Nothing about her magic, nothing about the ACD, nothing about magical frequencies. Nothing about materials science, or engineering, or the electromagnetic spectrum.

The problem was, without the ACD, she didn't know what to say. Without hinting at the ACD, she couldn't talk about her childhood, which had been dominated by guided experiments under her father or his grad students at Stanford and coding competitions; without the ACD, she couldn't explain what she did day to day, or why she was in Britain at all, or even why she was attracted to Aldon. Aldon was handsome, yes, and wealthy and intelligent and many other things, but that wasn't everything.

When one took away the ACD, there wasn't much to Francesca. At least, not much that she could talk about that Ed would understand. She was sure that he wouldn't be interested in Star Trek, or romance novels, or magical dance. And Star Trek also probably came too close to the ACD, anyway.

"You'd—you'd have to ask Aldon," she replied stiffly instead.

"Why?" Ed studied her. "You would know yourself best."

Francesca shrugged. "I thought—thought you were asking what he saw in me."

"No." Ed leaned back in his armchair. "I was asking you to tell me about yourself. Aldon is my closest friend, and you are his wife."

Ed had been Aldon's closest friend, but the Aldon that Francesca saw with him was very different than the Aldon that Francesca knew. "There is—there isn't much to know," she replied, looking away and thinking over what Ed could possibly know or suspect about her. "I'm from a No-Maj family in America. My grandparents live in Hong Kong, and I often spent summers there as a child. I like tea and dance."

"A good family?"

"What do you mean by good?" Francesca shook her head, her hands trembling as she rearranged the items on her tea tray for the umpteenth time. "I don't—don't like these insinuations. I would—if you could say whatever you want to say plainly, I'd prefer that."

"Needing things spelled out is not a good trait for Aldon's wife," Ed commented coolly, and Francesca felt her shoulders stiffen. She hated this—she hated people generally, but she especially hated these subtle digs. She wasn't enough, and she would never be enough, and she didn't belong anywhere. Her magic was barely magic, and who ever heard of somoene who couldn't use a wand? But few people said it outright. Ed's expression was critical, his mouth tilted in disapproval. "He will always be in the eyes of Society, and as his wife, so will you."

Society would be a very different place when Aldon was through with it, and Francesca pressed her lips together tightly. She didn't know how much time it had been, but she didn't care. Aldon didn't need that much time to set up the next part of the con anyway, and surely the few minutes that had passed were enough. "I'm sure—you should speak to Aldon. I think—I think he will be occupied for the rest of the day today anyway, so shall I—shall I walk you to the edge of the grounds?"

She didn't want to walk him to the edge of the grounds. To the door, fine, but the edge of the grounds was far. But as a spy, Aldon had said that Ed could not be left unattended in the manor or on the grounds at any time.

"Aldon said he would be back shortly." Ed raised an eyebrow.

"The—the manor is showing me that he won't be," Francesca replied, reaching for Aldon's teacup and pouring the excess over her dragon tea pet, then doing the same with Ed's barely-touched cup. According to Aldon, were she and Aldon actually married, the manor would pass along information to her as it needed, just as it did for him. Letting her know that Aldon couldn't return was believable. "I will walk you out."

Ed was silent as she packed up the set. He followed her as she stood up and headed for the door, then out of the family quarters and into the common areas. It was obvious, from the way he moved, that he was well familiar with Rosier Place. She shifted her shoulders, uncomfortable, and led him past the door where Aldon and Draco were having a heated argument. Aldon had seen her coming, of course, and Draco was behind the door, hidden from view.

"Lord Rosier…" Draco was saying, his voice pitched lower than Francesca had heard before, almost gravelly. "You can't possibly be considering—Hogsmeade isn't secure! Voldemort has made it his home base in Scotland!"

"If Sparrow needs help in Hogsmeade, then I have to go," Aldon replied, his voice heated for all that it was quiet. "Tonight. If I go tonight—"

Francesca cleared her throat, looking back at Ed, who had slowed at the whispers. The whispers stopped abruptly, as Francesca knew they would, and Francesca gestured for Ed to go in front of her. "Please," she murmured, trying to sound firm.

Ed hobbled on ahead of her, and she guided him out the door. Shortly onto the grounds, she felt Aldon shift the distances under her feet, so that they wouldn't have as far to travel. Another trick, she supposed, to make it seem as if Francesca had the same control over Rosier Place and its grounds as Aldon did.

They were almost at the wards when Ed spoke again.

"Aldon loves you," he said, his voice more measured than it had been before.

"I know." She stopped, about fifteen away from the edge of the wards. She couldn't feel them, not the way Aldon could, but he had shown her exactly where to stop.

"You don't even respect him enough to wear his ring."

Francesca stiffened. If she were anyone else—if she were Archie, if she were Hermione, if she were John, she thought the ploy might have worked. She would have needed to defend herself, spilling out to Ed that they weren't married, telling him more than he ought to know before she stopped to think. In that light, their entire conversation of the past half hour or so seemed to have been aimed at provoking her to spill information.

But Francesca hesitated. She always hesitated when she spoke, and she often changed what she was going to say in the middle of saying it. What might have worked on others didn't work on her.

"I don't—I do not need to explain myself to you," she said, picking each word carefully. "Nor do I need to explain my relationship with Aldon. When Aldon was disowned, I didn't see you or your wife there. Aldon spoke of you, but always—always like it was in the past. I don't think you have any grounds to pass judgement. Now, please—get off our grounds."

Ed studied her for another few moments, his eyes dark, and then he turned and walked out off the Rosier grounds. Francesca waited for a few minutes, making sure he had truly left, before returning to the manor.

Aldon and Draco were waiting in the entrance hall.

"Well?" Aldon asked, his voice tight.

Francesca shrugged. "I don't know."

"It doesn't matter," Draco said, shaking his head quickly. "The plan is set now, so we have to go ahead and execute it."

XXX

In Hogsmeade, Caelum was waiting. Hogsmeade was the base of operations for Voldemort's defence of Scotland. Aside from being the second-largest Wizarding community in Wizarding Britain, it was also the primary base of the Ministry loyal. Not that the Inconsistency-in-Chief had much of a base in Hogsmeade to speak of—for the most part, people nodded frantically whenever Caelum gave them orders and then tried to vanish as soon as his attention moved on.

In Scotland, most of the true Ministry faithful had moved south in the months following the _Daily Prophet_'s recommendations. The Clans were more prominent than anyone had ever imagined; Voldemort was outnumbered on the battlefield, and those Clan members that they didn't find on the battlefield had been pulled back into hidden safehouses, or to the Shetlands or the Orkneys. The Aurors that were sent to various listed family homes to investigate or arrest suspected insurgents always came back empty-handed.

Those in Hogsmeade, with the prominent and prestigious wizarding address close to Hogwarts School, their shops, their exclusive wizarding restaurants, and other businesses were less inclined to pack up and move. They, like Hogwarts, had aimed for neutrality, which only meant that Voldemort found it very easy to move in, booking every single hotel and boarding home in the vicinity while he did it. Hogsmeade itself, with an influx of hundreds of Aurors and army personnel, was completely changed.

The civilians tried to stay out of the way, and there were whispers when Caelum walked on the streets. They looked away when he spoke to them, a few obviously afraid, and the local apothecary was giving him all the potions ingredients he wanted for free. He didn't have a Potions lab to use them in yet, but at least his kit was now fully stocked of every ingredient he could have ever wanted, under the appropriate stasis spells.

If it were not for Edmund Rookwood, Caelum would still be in the Hebrides today, making snide comments to his mother, Parkinson, and Mulciber. They were still holding onto the islands, if only barely, but the resistance had learned that if they _blinded_ the dragons from the air, the monsters would turn on their dragon-keepers and on each other as quickly as attacking the enemy. They had lost three dragons in the ensuing mess, and six of their own fighters.

Rookwood would be reporting to Hogsmeade, where his wife was kept under tight guard. Voldemort always wanted Rookwood's report in person, and that meant that Caelum needed to be there to hear it because he needed to beg an assignment from the man. Rosier had set the plan for tonight, close enough to Hogsmeade to be a plausible meeting point with a spy, but far enough away that Caelum wouldn't be able to get support quickly. Caelum had to be far enough from other support that, in theory, he could be forced into letting Rosier go in payment of the life-debt without anyone being close enough to interfere.

In practice, Rosier would give him a suicide spell, and then they'd cause a ruckus with a staged fight, Rosier would flee when someone was in sight to have observed the supposed fulfilment of the life-debt, and Caelum would be a little safer than he had been before. Caelum could only hope that His Lunacy would be more pleased with the fact that Caelum was now a free agent, without a life-debt hanging over him, than he was with the fact that Caelum had managed to let Rosier escape.

No one else tortured with as much control as Caelum did. His mother would be too likely to get carried away, and it wasn't like the Ice Bitch would sully her hands with torture. Hopefully that leeway would allow him to escape without too severe a punishment.

He spotted the limping figure appearing in the afternoon light. Rookwood was always identifiable by his gait, so Caelum slipped forward from his position on a bench outside and followed him into the Hogsmeade Arms, the largest hotel in Hogsmeade.

A small bell tinkled above the door, and a blast of hot air hit him in the face. He scowled. The transition from cold to hot made his face tingle, a sensation that reminded him rudely of being under the Cruciatus Curse. Not the first round, or the second, but the third or fourth—he didn't want to think about it. It had been more than a year since he had suffered the Cruciatus Curse, and he hated every reminder.

The Hogsmeade Arms was designed to be homely and comfortable, rather than stately and elegant. There were tables scattered throughout the common room, each one polished and shining though they were clearly dated. The chairs were made of a similar stained wood but were mismatched by design, from minimalist to ornate. Red, overstuffed armchairs and sofas dotted the room, the velvet upholstery shiny under the soft amber lights. The chandeliers were gaudy, the glass lampshades covered in poor paintings of roses, while thick red drapes covered the windows and kept the cold out. Every time he walked into the room, Caelum felt as if he had been swallowed alive and was now swimming in someone's organs.

Voldemort had the place of pride by the fire. With the exception of Alesana Rookwood, sitting unnaturally still to one side with a glassy look in her eyes, he was alone. That was rare—most of the time, the madman was surrounded by his sycophants and fanatics, but they were almost all in the Hebrides and the few that had returned with Voldemort seemed to be off menacing the shopkeepers. All the better for Caelum, if he was the only one who would hear Rookwood's news.

"Rookwood," His Lord Madman said, rolling the name slowly in his mouth. Caelum fought a shudder, slipping off to sit in an unobtrusive corner of the organ room. He was close enough to eavesdrop, interrupt and demand that a mission be entrusted to him—but far enough away that the delusional crackpot couldn't read his mind. Voldemort's attention was focused on Rookwood, but Caelum sat facing away from them just in case. "What news from Rosier Place?"

"I spoke to Aldon's wife." Rookwood's voice was emotionless and stark.

"And?"

"She said little throughout my meeting with Aldon," Rookwood replied slowly, and Caelum heard the sound of shifting feet. "Aldon is too careful to tell me anything of value, but he was called away during the meeting. I had hoped that alone, she might prove more loquacious, but I was not lucky there, either. She stated that she is an American Muggleborn with a strong connection to China, and that she liked tea and dance. I attempted to rile her by insinuating that she was interested in Aldon's money and position but was not successful. She was markedly uncomfortable with me and my presence and sought to have me dismissed as soon as possible."

"There is more than that, isn't there?" The eager note in Voldemort's voice was unsettling—Rookwood had never been particularly good at Occlumency, and Caelum could tell that Voldemort had found something interesting in his thoughts. "Tell me."

"I do not know," Rookwood started, but only a moment later his voice picked up. "I only have suspicions!"

Caelum could only assume that the madman had raised his wand towards Rookwood's wife. He suppressed a snort—Alesana Rookwood was clearly under the Imperius Curse, so there would be no point to torturing her now. It would be easier to just order her to scream.

"I didn't see a wand on her," Edmund said, his voice slow again. Caelum assumed Voldemort had dropped his wand. "The entirety of my conversation with Aldon, she served tea in a traditional style, but did not bring out her wand to heat the water. She used traditional Chinese runic magic instead. I found it odd, so I looked for a wand later, but did not see one on her person, nor any pockets that could have been used for one. The American Institute of Magic is a wand-magic school, and I know that she was on their team for the Triwizard Tournament, therefore she must be a wand-user, yet I didn't see one on her."

"So?"

There was silence, before Rookwood spoke again, halting. "She is lying. Either she is not a Muggleborn and is either a halfblood or pureblood from China who learned traditional magic at home, or whatever device some of the resistance is using is in a far more advanced stage that we had previously guessed, to the point where she no longer resorts to a wand."

"I see." The nutter's voice was high-pitched and cold. "And do you know anything about this device yet?"

"No." Even if Caelum couldn't see Rookwood's face, he could hear how much the admission cost him. Rookwood had been spinning on the question of the device for weeks, and yet had gotten nowhere near cracking it than where he had first started. "Magical theory is not my strong suit. If I had assistance…"

"Your wife could assist you, could she not?"

Another pause. "If she were well."

Caelum didn't hear a response for several minutes, though he heard the sound of movement. His Nutcase had to be pacing.

"The device is giving the resistance an advantage that must be neutralized," Voldemort said, sounding as if the words were twisting out of his mouth against his will. "Lestrange, no treat for you today. Rookwood, take your wife and get to work. Unpuzzle whatever it is they have done and devise a method for us to counteract it. If you do not, you will feel my displeasure."

"Yes, sir," Rookwood replied quickly, and there was a scramble as Rookwood no doubt stumbled towards his wife. "Thank you, sir."

A flash of anger ran through Caelum's veins. Rookwood had grovelled, and he had spat out valuable information about Rosier's wife, and yet he hadn't told Voldemort about the meeting that would happen that night. The man couldn't even be _manipulated_ properly, the absolute _govnyuk!_ Caelum stood up, ready to head back out into the cold to stew over his next steps, when Voldemort called his name.

"Lestrange."

"Sir," Caelum said, turning sharply. "If you have no need of my services…"

"You will have plenty of scope in the Hebrides tomorrow, Lestrange," Voldemort replied, a smile on his lips. Rookwood was with his wife, now waking from the Imperius Curse, and they were supporting each other. "Have no fear. We'll leave at dawn."

Caelum nodded and bowed, the movements jerky, and stalked out of the room.

The importance of the information coming from Rookwood was so that Caelum didn't look like he had planned the interaction. It had to come from Rookwood, because Caelum needed real memories to throw at the madman, and they had to be corroborated by another source. He needed the memory of hearing the information, just like he needed someone to observe Rosier ordering him to let him go, and he needed it before Rosier arrived in only a few hours.

That meant drastic measures, a short plan cobbling itself in his head. He would disobey the madman, but that was a risk worth taking considering he would have a real memory of running into Rosier. He and Rosier would fight, and he would use the real memories of a fight to throw at Voldemort to show him that there was no longer a life-debt, and he would be a little safer when no one ever asked about the life-debt ever again.

When Rookwood and his wife came out of the hotel, walking towards their own boarding house, he stalked after them. He let them get almost towards their boarding house, as far away from the Hogsmeade Arms as he could, before he drew his wand and cast a Trip-Jinx on Rookwood.

Rookwood staggered, his good leg collapsing under him, and went down heavily. His wife, weak from the Imperius, went down with him. Caelum had her bound and levitating upside-down out of the way in only a second, then he turned back on Rookwood.

"Think you're good, don't you?" he snapped. "Think that just because you can fool Voldemort, you can fool _me?_"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rookwood snarled, from the ground. "Voldemort is a Legilimens—do you truly believe that he didn't uncover everything, whether I wished him to or not? You think you're better than he is?"

"No," Caelum replied, twisting his lips into a vicious smile, one that he had stolen right off his mother's face. _Blyat_, he hated his mother. "But I know you. You care deeply for Rosier, and you would not have spilled so much about his wife as easily as you did unless you were hiding something else. Out with it, Rookwood."

"You know nothing about me," Rookwood snapped, trying to stagger to his feet, but Caelum kicked him in his bad leg, right in the spot that he knew that Rookwood was missing a large piece of muscle. Muscle did not grow back, not unless a Healer got to the injury quickly, and no one had. Rookwood would limp for life. "Whatever our fathers were—we were never friends."

"Normally I would have had to break at least two of your wife's bones for you to say so much," Caelum retorted, then he pointed his wand at Alesana Rookwood and Vanished her clothing. She screamed, struggling to cover herself with her hands, while Caelum laid the first Whip Curse against her back.

Her skin was pale white, pebbled in the cold, and the blood that ran in bright red, pearly drops drew lines down her back. Or up it, depending on one's perspective.

"How many strikes do I need to lay in, Rookwood?" Caelum demanded, flicking his wand for a second curse. A second line of red, a second cry. "Before you talk?"

"Voldemort said that you would have no pleasure today," Rookwood said, going pale and trying to struggle upright. Caelum hit him with a Leg-Locker Curse, and he fell back to the ground. "He said we were not to be touched!"

"I'm sure that once I have whatever you're hiding, he will be happier still that I disobeyed." Caelum flicked his wand again, anger brewing under his skin at Rookwood's suggestion that he _enjoyed_ what he did. He did what he did because he needed to do it, and that was all. He was not his mother, and he did not _enjoy_ inflicting pain. Not the way that she did—never the way that she did. "How many times do I need to lash her for it, Rookwood?"

"You wouldn't," Rookwood replied, but from his tone, Caelum knew that even Rookwood didn't believe it. Caelum had made his reputation too well—or his family had done it for him, and Caelum was living up to the image painted by his forebears.

"Do not tell me what I will not do," Caelum replied, and he started anew. No one in Hogsmeade would interfere—he doubted even Voldemort cared enough to interfere. Caelum rated higher than either Rookwood or his wife in Voldemort's esteem, and if Rookwood was revealed to be concealing information, Voldemort would be far more upset with Rookwood than he would be with Caelum. In that light, it was even better that Rookwood had hidden the plans from Voldemort—their master lunatic would be angrier at Rookwood for concealing information than he would be at Caelum for letting Rosier get away. Not that Caelum would appear to have any choice in letting Rosier get away.

There were eight more lines across Alesana Rookwood's back, five across her front, and the woman had fainted in pain before Rookwood broke. Without the screams and cursing, there was hardly any point in further whipping, so Caelum sheathed his wand and drew the knife he used for harvesting Potions ingredients. He walked over to her limp form; her arms now hung towards the ground, revealing her stripped, mauled body to the entirety of Hogsmeade.

His mother would have found the image beautiful. Caelum wanted to vomit.

"Stop." Rookwood said, sounding completely broken while Caelum contemplated where to begin. The face was always a good place, but he rather thought it would hurt Rookwood more if he started with her breasts. His mother would have started with the face—she had always called a woman's beauty her most important asset—but Caelum was not his mother, he did not enjoy this, and he only wanted results. "Lestrange—stop. Stop. I—Aldon is coming tonight. To Hogsmeade, to meet a contact he called Sparrow. I overheard him, but he knows I did, so I doubt he will carry through. He is too smart to carry through. It is completely meaningless, so please—just stop."

"Meaningless, is it?" Caelum paused, turning back towards Rookwood. "That is something for Voldemort to decide, not you. Is that everything?"

"Yes," Rookwood choked out, his eyes wide and desperate as he looked at his wife. "I swear it, Lestrange. By Merlin, by Voldemort himself. Please, let her go."

Caelum snorted, sheathing his knife. If Rookwood was prepared to swear it by Voldemort, there was likely nothing else, or that was what he would say to Voldemort if asked why he hadn't questioned them harder. He released the spells on Alesana Rookwood, and she fell with a heavy thud into a puddle of her own blood. "We'll see about that, Rookwood. I'm going to find Rosier, and I'm going to exact my revenge for the duel, and you can rest assured that I will be telling Voldemort about this."

He stalked off, leaving them both crumpled in the street.

Caelum spent the evening walking a spiral patrol through Hogsmeade and its environs, building memories that he would use to throw at Voldemort. Rosier had given him almost no details about exact time or location—Caelum was always intended to get the information from Rookwood. These memories would be a distraction, something that Caelum could use alongside his anger and hate to deflect attention from the other things that Caelum needed to keep hidden. His Occlumency was not non-existent—merely growing up with his mother meant that he had some minor grounding in the technique—but it was nothing against Voldemort's powers.

The houses were beautiful in the winter, a layer of snow covering the sharply pointed roofs. The cobblestone streets were elegant, but the few people on the streets averted their gaze and scurried away or inside when he passed. Caelum saw people watching him from the windows, but the curtains would always twitch shut when he looked at them, and the windowpanes became blank squares of yellow, or red, or orange as he passed by. It was cold, but still nothing compared to northern Russia.

On his third spiral patrol pass, Rosier was waiting outside the gates of Hogwarts.

"Rosier." Caelum spat the name out, drawing his wand. "Such a pleasure to see you."

Rosier whipped around, a gun in one hand and his wand in the other. "Lestrange."

"Foolish of you to come here," Caelum taunted, smiling slightly at the hint of nervousness in Rosier's eyes.

"It was a risk worth taking," Rosier replied, the nervousness disappearing as his jaw set and he levelled the Muggle weapon at Lestrange. There was a click as his thumb moved, but the gun didn't fire. "So, Lestrange? Where do we stand, or shall we get on with it? You're in enough trouble as it is, should you be found out. We should be quick."

Caelum was tempted to let the silence draw out, but Rosier wasn't wrong. Instead, he shook his head, lowered his wand and sheathed it. Seeing the movement, Rosier slowly lowered his gun, clicking whatever it was a second time and putting it away. His eyes were wary, but he took a few steps forward.

They examined each other for a few minutes. The war had been good to Rosier, Caelum thought; he was now the Lord Rosier, and he carried himself with more confidence than he had previously. Rosier had always been foppish, but now there was an edge of underlying determination that put it in another light. If before he had been a well-dressed fool, he was now simply well-dressed.

Rosier seemed to be studying him just as intently, then he raised his wand and cast a ward. The runes spilled out into the air, hiding them from sight, sound and smell.

It was Caelum who broke the silence next. "Rookwood didn't give you up. Not to Voldemort. I had to follow him and secure the information myself."

There was a flash of something in Rosier's eyes. Regret, he thought, so Caelum snorted and looked away. "Don't go feeling too soft for your old friend. He quite happily gave up everything he knew or guessed about your wife, and you're doing an absolute shit job of pretending like she is less than she is. Rookwood knows that she is behind your device, and that either she's lying about her background, or the device is much further along than you've shown so far. He and his wife have been ordered to unravel it, though they haven't had much success thus far."

There was another pause, before Rosier lowered his wand and stepped forward again. "And they won't," he said, his voice a mixture of both pride and sadness. "Neither of them has the background to even begin unravelling it. Where do you want the suicide spell, Lestrange? It should be someplace that no one is likely to see or check."

"If anyone is seeing it, I have bigger problems," Caelum muttered, but leaned over, unlaced his right boot, and sat down in the dirt. "Do it fast, Rosier. The less I have to cover with my _sraniy_ Occlumency, the better."

"This will hurt," Rosier warned, and Caelum gritted his teeth as Rosier knelt beside him and got on with it.

_Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob_. The curse dug into his skin, for all the world like Rosier was carefully flaying off a part of his skin. It felt like Rosier was rooting around in his foot with a dagger, drawing something. It was nothing compared to the torture that Caelum had gone through in the past, but it was still more pain than Caelum ever really wanted to experience ever again.

A painless life. Imagine that.

The marking took only a few minutes, which was still longer than Caelum wanted. When it was done, Rosier stepped away and drew a symbol in the air with blue light. "This is the rune I've tattooed onto your foot. Know it's there—you don't need to memorize it, but if you need to use it, just send magic to your foot with the right intention, and it'll activate to stop your heart. I hope you won't ever have to use it."

Caelum shook his head roughly, grabbing his sock and boot and pulling them back on with a scowl. "Save the platitudes, Rosier. I don't need them. I'm not here of my own free will, and they are better spent on those who are."

"But your work is valuable, and I think it appropriate that I express my gratitude." Rosier paused, then he clarified. "This is me expressing my gratitude. I am… aware that the limits of the life-debt do not meet this situation, and that we are far beyond any debt you could have possibly owed to me."

Caelum snorted again, picking himself back up and turning away from Rosier. There was an unsettled feeling across his shoulders; Rosier's words felt wrong, and he couldn't help but look for the trick. There had to be a trick, and it was best that he move on and get out before he could see it. "Enough. Let's duel, Rosier. Or pretend to duel. I need the memories, and we need to draw attention."

"Should we succeed, after the war…" Rosier paused again, then he cleared his throat awkwardly. "If you need anything, do let me know."

"After the war, we won't talk," Caelum snapped, turning back on him and drawing his wand. "After the war, I want nothing but peace. I want my Potions lab, and I want you and everyone you're associated with to stay as far away from me as possible. Enough talking. Let's fight. Take the ward down."

Rosier tilted his head, a resigned expression on his face, but he drew his wand and tore down the wards. The second he did, Caelum fired a loud, guttural Binding curse at him in Old Slavic, while Rosier ducked out of the way and drew his gun.

They were better than they were a year ago—both of them were far better than they were the last time they had duelled, fake or not. Rosier was fast, turning and firing two very loud gunshots in Caelum's general direction, while his wand moved in the pattern for a Stunning Spell. Caelum blocked, moving forward with another curse on his lips. He was aiming to capture, not to kill, and he felt himself hampered as he picked through the spells he could use.

It had to be loud, and it had to be fast. Rosier fired multiple Blasting and Bombardment Curses at him, and Caelum responded in turn. Neither of them bothered keeping their spellwork non-verbal—the point was to draw attention, to put both of them in a situation where someone would raise the alarms. Rosier looked away, the barest moment of distraction, and Caelum took the opportunity to cast a Binding Spell on him. Rosier's arms snapped to his side, held by invisible ropes; he struggled, and toppled over into the snow.

"Well, what do we have here?" Caelum drawled, stalking forwards as if it were their first meeting that night. "You missed. Several times. Your aim is awful."

"Unfortunate," Rosier spat, rolling over to glare at him. "Let me go, Lestrange."

"Now, why would I do that?" Lestrange spread his hands, drawing a knife. "I have much humiliation to pay you back for, and I'm sure that Voldemort will appreciate it when I hand the rebel spymaster to him."

"The lights are on in Hogwarts Castle," Rosier replied, struggling harder, and his voice carried a note of warning. "So are the lights in the village. Help is coming for me—Lord Dumbledore himself is probably only a few steps away."

"If they have heard us, then so has Voldemort," Caelum retorted, squatting down beside him and lightly tracing a swirling figure in the air above Rosier's face. His mother would have started with Rosier's odd, orange-yellow eyes, he thought. But he just needed to make a picture for anyone watching—a picture, to throw at Voldemort. "I, too, will have backup."

"Let me go," Rosier repeated, his eyes widening. "I am closer to Hogwarts Castle than you are to Hogsmeade—Dumbledore or the professors will be here faster than any support from Hogsmeade. I _order_ it, Lestrange."

"_Order_ it, do you?"

"Yes." Rosier stopped struggling, glaring at Lestrange. "In the name of the life-debt you owe me, let me go."

There were sounds from both Hogwarts and the village—people yelling and running feet. Lestrange froze, a picture of struggle, and he hoped that someone could see him. He counted down from twenty, twenty very long seconds, before his wand moved and Rosier was released.

"Get out," Lestrange snapped. He spat in the snow and scrambled backwards. "This once, Rosier. Once only, and next time, I will kill you."

Rosier didn't miss a beat. He twisted in the air and Apparated away.

Caelum cursed, turning around and watching one of Voldemort's other followers racing up the hill towards him. McFadden, Caelum thought.

"Rosier," Caelum snapped at the man. "I had to let him go. Life-debt. Get me Rookwood, and I need to see Voldemort immediately."

It took him only a few minutes to slide his most dangerous memories under his thin Occlumency shields, but the entire walk back to Hogsmeade to appropriately stoke his rage as Voldemort needed to see. Rosier had been here. Rosier had been here, and because Rookwood hadn't given Voldemort the information he ought to have given upfront, they hadn't been prepared. And Rosier had gotten away, and Caelum hadn't gotten his revenge, and in fact he was only more humiliated than he was previously.

By the time he confronted Voldemort, his anger was bubbling to the surface. Rookwood was already there, his nervousness obvious in the way he shook, and Caelum hated him—for his cowardice, for his past stupidity, for his honour that reared its ugly head at the most inconvenient of times. He could barely speak with his rage, and instead he only looked at Voldemort in the eyes and threw memories at him.

One of the afternoon, of Rookwood spilling the information to him while he held his wife in his grasp—the other of this evening, of Rosier invoking the life-debt to force him to let him go. The memories seethed with anger and hate, and Caelum felt everything anew as Voldemort dug his mental fingers into them and flipped through them.

Caelum had almost had his revenge. And because of a life-debt that he never truly believed that he owed, he didn't get it. And he was angry, and he wanted to have his revenge on _someone_, and was there any reason why it couldn't be on their fool spy who was still too loyal to the enemy?

"Why not, indeed?" Voldemort murmured, and he motioned for his other followers to shove Rookwood forward. "Don't kill him, Lestrange. Have your fun but leave both him and his mind intact. And you will still be needed in the Hebrides tomorrow, so do try to preserve your magic and strength."

XXX

Lina leaned over the table in the head tent, staring at a map of Scotland in front of her. Two colours flickered over the surface of the map, representations of which areas had been won and which were still held by Voldemort, at least ostensibly so. Red, for the resistance; blue, for Voldemort's holdings.

Magical warfare was a strange thing. Borders were defined largely by who obeyed whom and where the residents of a region believed that they lived. There was no reason why witches and wizards needed to abide by the borders used by their Muggle neighbours, but for myriad reasons, the wizarding borders did largely follow Muggle ones.

A British witch or wizard still tended to think of themselves as _British, _just as a French witch or wizard thought of themselves as _French_. Culturally, witches and wizards still tended to be closer to their Muggle neighbours than they did to witches or wizards of other countries—wizarding or not, they often shared history, language, attitudes, and the million other things that fed into an identity. Over the last century, that had only become more true with the explosion of Muggle consumer technology, especially the radio and television. A French witch or wizard still spoke French, still had coffee and a croissant for breakfast, still looked down their nose at the British and Germans both, and therefore answered to the French _Minist__è__re de Magique_ because to whom else would they answer?

In a magical war, the problem was convincing enough residents of an area to change their beliefs about who they were, and who they wanted to lead them. Within Scotland, most of the population already saw themselves as _Scottish _rather than entirely British, but the resistance still needed to win enough victories that they stopped seeing themselves as being ruled by Britain. That meant destroying or taking any signs of Ministry power: from the dozen Ministry Auror outposts spotted throughout their country, to the dragon reservations held by employees of the Ministry of Magic's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to any bases or camps held by the enemy.

Over the last four weeks, they had swept Scotland. Most of the islands had fallen quickly—Shetland hadn't even fought, its inhabitants quite cheerfully setting the Ministry outpost on fire themselves, and the Orkneys had posed little more of a fight. They had wasted most of a week in the Outer Hebrides, and Lina made a note that if they survived, Marcus Flint would need an award for coming up with the plan to turn the dragons on their own by blinding them in air. He was now the leader of their air force, a critical unit that they had had to reorganize the troops to accommodate. Captain Flint took only the best fliers, but air support had been critical on the Outer Hebrides. The low number of casualties there could solely be attributed to him.

Then, the dragon reservations secured and under the watchful guard of the Scamanders and Charlie Weasley, the resistance forces had moved onto the Isle of Skye and the Inner Hebrides. Portree, a small wizarding community, had put up a fight, and had been the first time that Voldemort unleashed a vampire coven, much to dhampir pleasure. Alex's unit had routed the coven, forcing a retreat, while Lina's units had cast fire-spells and focused on Voldemort's army.

The Highlands, thick with the Clans and Clan supporters, had fallen next. This had been a sweep over only a little more than a week, since these were the home grounds of Clans Ross, Cameron, McAllister, McLeod, and McKinnon. The Clans knew their lands, and guerilla tactics had effectively picked off any of Voldemort's units who strayed into them. Taking the Ministry outposts throughout the Highlands and burning them down had been a matter of time and careful planning only. The Auror offices near Inverness and Aberdeen had gone down next, largely through the actions of Clan MacMillan, in whose traditional territories they had fallen. By now, there were only three major locations left to take: the wizarding port of Inchcolm, the Portkey Hub in Edinburgh, and finally, Hogsmeade.

The port and the Portkey Hub were key. They were Wizarding Scotland's primary links to the international community. Once they were under Clan control, the Clans would have free, independent access to the international community, critical for trade. It would also be a symbolic victory, since the Clans could exert control over what could come in and out of their country by those routes.

Once both connections were taken, they would finally move on Hogsmeade, Voldemort's Scottish stronghold.

Hogsmeade was a problem. There were too many civilians in Hogsmeade, too many people who supported he British Ministry of Magic, and it was too close to Hogwarts. They had avoided Hogsmeade because, until the rest of Scotland was taken and it was an island in a sea of unfriendly territory, it would have been too much of a risk. With the rest of Scotland gone, Lina would have to hope that the residents of Hogsmeade and its surroundings would be open to accepting the new reality.

But it was a problem that could, at least, wait until after they had taken both Inchcolm and the Edinburgh Portkey Hub.

Alastor was the first of the commanders to walk into the tent, his magical eye spinning wildly around. They were as safe as anyone could be in the Boyd Clanhome, which was both close to the Muggle city of Glasgow and one of their safehouses. For a man of nearly seventy years old, Moody carried himself with the energy of a much younger man, and a bright vigour shone in his eyes. Stormwings were born in and made for war, and Alastor was thriving on the adrenaline.

James and Sirius, walking in behind him, seemed the opposite. Both of them had gained lines in their faces over the past few weeks—the groove between James' eyebrows which had started appearing in the last six months was now permanently etched on his face, while Sirius had new lines around his mouth. They were both handling the stress well, for people who did not make their lives on war.

The Clan Lairds and Ladies came in next, chatting quietly. Most of the ones from the Highlands had a jaunt in their steps, while several others were worried or tired. The new Lady MacLaggen was clearly awake only by virtue of a Wideye Potion—over the past few weeks, she had been putting down internal revolts within her Clan as much as fighting against Voldemort's forces, and it showed in too-sharp way she looked around and the shake of her hands. The new Laird McLeod too had a bit of the same look, but a Highland victory for his Clan meant that it had been nearly a week since he'd faced either a challenge or an assassination attempt. The Lady Ross was with them, her eyes sharp as she took the first available seat at the table; briefly, Lina wondered who was teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts with her personally leading Clan Ross.

Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić walked in next—his unit had seen more action since Skye but had been operating more or less independently. With a coven to track, Alex and his unit had struck off on their own, and while the lines of communication remained open between them, they had put their noses to the ground and tracked the coven using their traditional methods. The only sign of their success was that Lina hadn't seen much evidence of the vampires throughout Scotland.

Flint was the last one in the room, the newest of the captains. Since his battlefield promotion, he had spoken little, and Lina did not know much about him. His entire family still stood by Voldemort's side, but Marcus Flint alone seemed to have split off for reasons of his own. Were it not for his actions in battle, from the Malfoy Manor strike to the present, and her son's clearance of him, Lina would have second-guessed his loyalties.

"Inchcolm and the Edinburgh Portkey Hub," Lina announced, straightening from where she stood over the map. "We have everything else in Scotland except those and Hogsmeade itself. The Edinburgh Portkey Hub is in the Muggle city, so I expect it'll fall easily—Voldemort is as hampered as we are in a Muggle area. I would expect Dementors, but a fifth of our joint forces should be able to take it. As for the rest, we should strike at Inchcolm at the same time, splitting his forces. We should have the numerical advantage there. Thoughts?"

Alastor examined the map critically. "Riskier than we need, I think," he said. "Voldemort will not make defending the Edinburgh Portkey Hub a high priority. He's a xenophobic nationalist, and like Lord Riddle before him, he cares little about the international community. But he will want to protect the port—Potter and Hurst have hit them too hard on the supply chains for him to do otherwise. We should throw our full forces at Inchcolm and pick up Edinburgh Portkey Hub on the way to Hogsmeade."

Lina shook her head, her mouth stubborn. "Voldemort is too proud, and he has lost too many people through the Highlands—he'll fight for every location he can, because he cannot afford to be seen doing otherwise. Even if the location were meaningless to him, he would fight for it for the symbolism only. If we hit both at once, we force him to split his forces."

"We wouldn't be able to bring our full forces into Edinburgh anyway," Lady McAllister said, looking at the map. "We do outnumber him—even more so, after the Highlands. I think the question is whether we can take Inchcolm without our full forces. MacLaggen, this is in your traditional territory—what's the terrain like?"

"It's an island," the Lady MacLaggen said irritably, crossing her arms over her chest. "Most of it is hidden from Muggle eyes, but it's an island, and not a big one."

"If it's not a big island, then too many of our own and we'll be tripping over ourselves," Laird Cameron added with a grimace. "I also would like to move onto Hogsmeade as soon as possible—we can't let the momentum we're building drain away."

"But our decisions are paid in lives, Laird Cameron," James pointed out, not unkindly. "It's better to take a more risk-averse approach—if we lose too many people here, to injuries or otherwise, they won't be able to support us on a Hogsmeade attack."

"We can't fly in Edinburgh." Flint shook his head. "Too much risk of breaching the Statute of Secrecy. If we had another two days for healing and broom repair, we could field nineteen at Inchcolm."

"Edinburgh is more attractive to vampires than Inchcolm—they need to live in places where there is a free supply of humans who can act as their prey." Alex, like Lina and Alastor, wore the last few weeks of action with casual, confident ease. "We believe there to be a nest in Edinburgh, and I have two scouts searching for it already. Voldemort's hold might be strong enough for them to help defend the Portkey Hub, so I would suggest any strikes there wait until we are through with them."

"We attack with the Order, then?" the Laird Boyd added, though he was frowning. Among the Clan leaders, he was the weakest at military strategy, but Lina suspected that he was good at consensus-building, which would be more important after the war.

"Not necessarily." Alex shrugged. "You'll want to bring your strike after ours, but whether we're in the process of killing them or if they are dead, that makes little difference."

"When do you think you'll be in position to take out the Edinburgh nest, then?" Lina asked, somewhat annoyed. While Alex's unit had been excellent at keeping the vampire threat occupied, they were unused to working with any except their own, and the resistance's aims were different from the Order's. But as fighters, there were none better, and she would also take what she could get.

"Hopefully, within a few days," Alex replied, ignoring her tone. "But that is dependent on my scouts locating the nest quickly. It could be later."

Lina shook her head. "Hardly a way to plan a war."

"I don't think there's any other way to plan a war, Lina," Sirius said, with a bark of laughter. "We're always dependent on some factor or another, so why would Alex be any different? It sounds like our troops on either side will be limited anyway, and we do outnumber Voldemort's forces—let's plan for a simultaneous strike, and if we need to delay the Edinburgh action to account for Alex, we'll do that and reassign a couple units to Inchcolm."

It was effectively her plan with an inbuilt contingency, so Lina conceded. "Very well. I will participate in the planning for the Inchcolm strike—Flint, MacLaggen, I assume you'll be with me, and most of the Clans?"

"Edinburgh is close to my traditional territory, and it's a city, so I will be on the Edinburgh strike," Laird Boyd volunteered. "I think my forces alone should be enough."

The Boyds were one of the largest Clans, since their traditional territories covered much of the populated area around Glasgow and the Lowlands, and they were the most integrated with the Muggle population. Lina nodded, glancing around the table to see that no one objected.

"I'll be with you too," Moody said gruffly. "One of us should be with you, and if Lina goes with Inchcolm I'll work on planning for Edinburgh with you. Dragić, you'll let us know exactly when you will be in position?"

"As soon as I know," Alex replied, with a tilt of his head. "I'll Patronus you."

"Fine." Lina sighed and pulled out her wand, waving it once at the map to narrow in on the area near Inchcolm, shaped like a hook in the strait. At the other end of the table, Moody, Alex and Boyd were gathering to focus on the Edinburgh strike, while the other commanders stood up to get a closer look at her map. "Lady MacLaggen, tell me more about Inchcolm. What can we expect? Usual winds, terrain difficulties, port organization—everything you know."

XXX

The room was too hot, crowded, and overstuffed. It was as if the proprietor of the Hogsmeade Arms thought that more furniture was necessarily better and kept finding increasingly kitschy items that simply had to be added to the collection. Either that, Pandora thought, or they had simply never thrown anything out and had kept amassing furniture, year over year, generation after generation, century after century, and had thrown it all together in the common room.

After weeks in the field, Pandora was simply glad not to be freezing to death. As far as she was concerned, the last weeks had been nothing but an unmitigated disaster. As soon as they had lost the dragon reservations, they had lost Scotland. They simply didn't have the public support to maintain the region, and most of the Ministry outposts hadn't been worth defending at all. They should have pulled back immediately and fortified their position at key locations, particularly Inchcolm and Hogsmeade, but instead Voldemort had been persuaded by the most bloodthirsty elements of their organization to fight every step of the way.

Voldemort was such a _wizard_, Pandora thought, annoyed. He couldn't handle a slight to his pride, and what was a bigger slight than the resistance successfully taking his territory away from him? And with Bellatrix and a half-dozen others promising results by chasing the rebels into the Highlands, Voldemort had found it all too easy to ignore her. Because she was only a woman, and a pretty one, and what did beautiful women know about war?

More than half the idiots around him, she thought. A third of those who had gone into the Highlands had not come out. None of them were people that Voldemort cared about losing—indeed, there were precious few losses that Voldemort would mourn—but the bare numbers still meant something to the man.

A part of her wanted very much to remind the man that she had recommended a retreat to Hogsmeade straight after the Hebrides, but she knew well enough how poorly that would go over. Whatever else the man might be, he was also incredibly powerful, and perfectly aware of that power. She had to be careful about what she said, because if she pushed him too hard, she would lose her own place of influence. How incredibly annoying—it reminded her too much of her old life, hiding her thoughts and smiling at every insipid comment she heard around her.

"What do you mean, you—" Voldemort snarled, and the man kneeling at his feet was shaking. Pandora identified him at a glance—it was one of the Notts. Not an important one, but unlucky, to have been chosen to deliver this message.

"I-Inchcolm, my—sir," Nott corrected himself. "We've lost it. Their air support units came on us as a surprise, and they must have had collaborators inside the port. They—they blew up one of the piers, and then when we drew towards that section, believing that they were attacking there, they moved in behind us and we were caught between them and their units from the sea. We only just—"

"_Silencio_," Voldemort snapped, and Nott fell silent, still grovelling. "Get out."

Nott needed no further prodding before he got up and ran. Pandora snorted. Voldemort had only killed a messenger once, and Pandora thought that there had to have been extenuating circumstances. Voldemort was a Legilimens, and there was no hiding anything from the man.

He looked around the room, seeking his various advisors. Pandora took a moment to scan the room—Travers and McNabb were missing, in charge of the _Daily Prophet_ and the Ministry of Magic respectively, but they were the only ones. Bellatrix Lestrange, wearing a completely inappropriate low-cut robe, was hovering to Voldemort's left; Rodolphus Lestrange was not far away from her, his expression stone-cold as he watched his wife making a fool of them both. Rabastan and Mulciber were sitting at a table with two pints of ale, while Dolohov and their two hired mercenaries sat across the room from them murmuring quiet comments to each other in Russian. Caelum Lestrange, the only person in the room that seemed to prefer the cold over the fire, was skulking in the corner closest to the door.

Voldemort's eyes sought out the two mercenaries—Zajac and Ozturk. "Well? Ideas? They will be striking at Hogsmeade shortly."

"Hogsmeade is not easily defended," Ozturk advised, looking over with bored expression. Neither mercenary had any real interest in the war aside from their pay, which had been given half up-front. Despite paying them, however, Voldemort was not always interested in their advice, and they had both learned through the Scottish campaign to provide counsel only when Voldemort explicitly requested it. "Had we more time, we would have recommended constructing more defenses—either magical or physical, it doesn't matter. Right now, the most we can do is put in basic explosive defenses around the town."

"We may be able to barricade some of the streets, as well," Zajac added, though his voice suggested that he doubted Voldemort would listen to them. Not incorrect, based on the last month. "Especially if we commandeer raw materials from the townspeople."

"But if Hogsmeade is not well-defended, why don't we move to somewhere that _is_ well-defended?" Bellatrix broke in, with smile that was somehow both sickly sweet and cruel. "Hogwarts is well-defended and has walls."

Far beneath the surface, Pansy stirred. Not Hogwarts.

There was a pregnant pause.

"Hogwarts does have stone walls," Mulciber murmured, considering the idea. "Dumbledore has not publicly taken a position. He must be forced—either he allows us in, or he stands with the rebels and we would be entitled to attack given the fact that Scotland is effectively lost."

"Scotland is not lost," Bellatrix spat, whirling on Mulciber. "Scotland is not lost until Hogwarts, and Hogsmeade, are lost."

Mulciber glared at her for a second but turned back to Voldemort without replying to her. "Hogwarts also has incredible symbolic meaning. If we hold Hogwarts, it will strike at the rebels' morale."

One glance at Voldemort's face, and Pansy knew that Voldemort was entranced with the idea. His eyes were wide, considering, and she had seen the many times he had looked up from the village to see the castle. She imagined that, for someone who had never been able to go to the esteemed school, Hogwarts would hold a powerful pull.

"And all those children, too," Bellatrix crooned, a mad light in her eyes. "Mostly the children of the rebels. We could have the whole war wrapped up, and all our losses returned in one fell swoop."

No. No, that was a terrible idea. But how could Pansy, from so many layers beneath Pandora Parkinson, convince Voldemort of it? It had to be a reasonable objection, or it had to sound reasonable, and one glance around the room showed that no one else would be objecting.

These were mostly Voldemort's fanatics—those that weren't, like the hired mercenaries and Caelum Lestrange, who was openly here for revenge on Aldon Rosier only, had not gone to Hogwarts. They didn't understand, not the way she did, why Hogwarts needed to be left alone. There were the children at school, of course, but there was also so much more. They would be attacking their own history if they struck at Hogwarts, one of the biggest symbols of Wizarding Britain. They would be attacking something that united them, tarnishing the good memories of thousands.

But that was the point, she realized. That was why it would be so good for striking at the rebels' morale.

They hadn't struck at Hogwarts before because the risks were too high. Striking at children, especially when the rebels were active elsewhere and Dumbledore hadn't taken a position, was politically too dangerous when they were trying to secure their hold within Wizarding Britain. But now, with most of Scotland gone, and Hogwarts the only school for the entire British Isles, many in the south would argue that they needed to take Hogwarts. They needed to keep the only school for Wizarding Britain within their accepted borders.

Pandora might accept that, but Pansy wouldn't. There were _children _at the school. What would be the _point_ of her undercover operation if she couldn't affect things when she needed to?

She searched her empty head for an argument. She had always been more cunning than most had assumed, and she forced herself to _think_. There had to be a reasonable-sounding argument that she could make to dissuade Voldemort from Hogwarts.

There were two things that she could use. First, Hogwarts was well-warded, and she trusted that Dumbledore would have ensured that all the wards were strengthened once the war had started. Doubled, tripled, or more—Dumbledore had always tried to keep the children in his care out of harm's way. To her knowledge, it had always been Riddle and his schemes that placed them in danger, and he had to have increased the school defences. They didn't know what they would be facing, and maybe striking at Hogwarts would be as hard as striking Queenscove had been.

Second, if they tried and failed, they would only look worse to the public. Even without _Bridge_, a strike of this magnitude could not be hidden. They would need to address it in the _Daily Prophet_ and the Wizarding Wireless Network, with _Bridge_ and The Underground shouting a far less rosy view from the rooftops. Attacking a school rarely looked good.

She had to say something. She threw memories of Hogwarts, of Hogwarts' defences and the innocence of the children, at her alter ego, and prayed that Pandora, conniving and cruel Pandora, would at least see the sense in advising caution.

"Sir," Pandora said, standing from her seat close to the fire and interceding with delicacy. "Voldemort, may I say something?"

The man turned to look at her, and Pansy burrowed herself a little deeper underneath her cover. There was always a risk when the man looked right into her alter ego's eyes, that he would look and see her looking out at him. "Yes?"

"Sir, if I might suggest caution?" Pandora said, her voice polite and considering, if firm. "Hogwarts has always been well-defended. Even before the rebel activities, the wards were strong, and Dumbledore is known to be sympathetic to the rebels. No doubt those protections have only increased in the last few months. Should we succeed, it would be a devastating blow for the enemy, but should we try and fail, we will be in a far worse position than if we simply retreated and fortified our English holdings. We will be in a better position in England where the population is still largely supportive of us, but if we attack Hogwarts and lose, that could change."

"You want to run away, Parkinson?" Bellatrix sneered at her. "Afraid of getting your hands dirty?"

Pandora glared at her, her lip curling in disgust. "My record speaks for itself, Bellatrix. And a measured, calculated retreat is by no means running away. We cannot only be thinking of the immediate circumstance, but the wider war. Yes, if we succeed, we will have almost certainly won, but if we do not, then we are in a far worse position than if we had never attacked at all. That needs to be considered."

"Then, are you counselling a retreat, Pandora?" Voldemort's voice, always surprising in its high pitch, was dangerous. Pansy flinched—she was treading dangerous territory, but she couldn't control Pandora further. Pandora was separate from her, and while she could influence Pandora with specific thoughts and memories, she couldn't control her. And Pandora, who valued her freedom and ability to speak her mind, would not be stopped once started.

"I am suggesting that we consider all the options," Pandora replied coolly, shooting another glare at Bellatrix before walking forward into the firelight with a courage, or perhaps a foolishness, that Pansy did not share. "The options seem to be as follows: first, we can fortify Hogsmeade. I don't think anyone, even Mr. Zajac or Mr. Ozturk, believe that to be a good idea.

"Second, we can strike at Hogwarts for a better position." She paused, tilting her head, and considered for a moment. "The advantages of this seem to be that if we succeed, it could well end the rebellion entirely. However, we could also be putting ourselves in a much worse position, because if we fail, we will not be able to hide the fact that we attacked the school. Taking children hostage never works well on a population—if we fail, it will turn people who are currently supportive of the Ministry against us. Even if we succeed, a success based on hostages does not a stable state create.

"Finally, we can abandon our position here and retreat south." She took a deep breath, and Pansy hoped her alter ego knew what she was doing. "Scotland is unusual—it had a pre-existing system that could step in as a government, and a national identity separate and apart from being British. If the rebellion wants to go further, they will need to come back into England and strike at us there, where we are much better positioned. It may be more strategic to retreat, fortify our bases, and wait for them there. If we win in England, taking out most of their troops, we can return to take Scotland."

"And leave the only school educating our children in the hands of the enemy?" As high-pitched as it was, there was still something icy about Voldemort's voice. Many layers underneath Pandora, Pansy shuddered. "You believe we cannot win, Pandora?"

"Forgive me for saying so, sir," Pandora said, her tone rivalling Voldemort in its coldness, "but you have not won in these past few weeks. I am only suggesting that it may be time to retreat and reconsider our position."

Pansy didn't need to see the flash in Voldemort's eyes, or hear the slight rumble running through the rest of the inner circle, to know that Pandora had said precisely the wrong thing. Pandora had no softness to her—Pansy would have tried to cajole, convincing Voldemort that pulling away from Hogwarts was his own idea, but Pandora cared less about speaking her mind. That was, indeed, the basis on which Pandora's personality had been born. And Pandora was the only one of them that could face Voldemort, because Pandora was not the spy.

She didn't see the movement of Voldemort's wand.

Instead, a blast, explosive and aimed right towards her, sent her flying. Her back hit something with too much force, and there was the sound of cracking wood as she slammed into the wall. She gasped, struggling to breathe through the sharp, jabbing pains new in her chest. Something was broken—it hurt too much for there to be any other answer. There wasn't enough air. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

"Lestrange," she heard Voldemort snap. Despite the pain, she opened her eyes to see Bellatrix stepping forward eagerly, only to be dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Not you. Caelum Lestrange."

"Sir," Lestrange said, his voice bland and emotionless.

"Take her outside and discipline her." Voldemort's face was a mask of fury. "I want to hear her screaming but leave her mind in one piece and summon a Healer afterwards. I would like to hear some heartfelt apologies from her tonight."

"Sir," she heard Lestrange acknowledge, and then she felt a tug behind the back of her neck as he levitated her and took her outside.

XXX

_ANs: Bit of an odd start to this chapter, I know-it happens before the last scene of the last chapter, and messages aren't instantaneous unless they are emergencies. Caelum also would have been more concerned with his personal risks after his scene at Queenscove last chapter and might not have reported the withdrawal because he was focusing on himself, and messages take time to be delivered and decoded. Hence, sometimes the information filters out back to the forces after it's lost any relevance whatsoever. A weird thing to think through, just like all my hands-in-the-air screaming about how magical borders even work. How does one enforce a magical border when people can just... Apparate?! _

_As always, I thrive off your reviews and comments and would greatly appreciate being left one! And thanks to meek_bookworm as per usual, this time for understanding more about the ACD than I do and cleaning up most of Francesca's thoughts on it. Bah, technology._


	15. Chapter 15

The Gryffindor common room was emptier this year than it had ever been. Gryffindor had always been one of the smallest Houses, so there had never been much of a fight for chairs, but this was a new low. It seemed like half the school hadn't returned after the winter holidays, and Ron and Neville had almost no competition at all for the good armchairs closest to the fire.

Ron couldn't say that he was particularly surprised. With Britain at war, with Dad gone and Mum as weak as she had been over the holidays, he hadn't wanted to return to school either. He already had his OWLs. With the war, who needed NEWTs?

All of his brothers were involved with the resistance. The twins ran The Underground, Percy was adapting to being a military lawyer, Charlie was running the dragon reservations in the Hebrides, and Bill had enlisted and was a unit captain in the Lord Potter's forces. Beyond that, he knew so many people his own age who hadn't come back and were involved on both sides—there were almost no Slytherins left in his year or the year above him, and most of the sixth- and seventh-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were gone too. Gryffindor had no seventh-years left at all, not since Cormac MacLaggen withdrew. Over four houses, there were only about two dozen students left in the sixth and seventh years.

Ron would have liked to withdraw and enlist in the resistance's army troops too. He wasn't the best at Duelling, or at Defence, but he wasn't bad, and he would be seventeen in only a few weeks. The resistance alliance took anyone over sixteen, but Mum had insisted that he go back to school. He was a _prefect_, she had yelled, and while Ron didn't think that being a prefect was very important with the war happening, he also hadn't wanted to argue so soon after Dad was gone.

It was good that he had gone back, he supposed. There were almost no prefects left at school, and someone had to keep Seamus Finnegan, one of the few supporters of Voldemort's regime, from being torn apart by the rest of Gryffindor House. Ron understood the feeling—he had drawn a wand on Seamus more than once in the past few months too, because Seamus clearly spoiled for a fight, and better Ron than Neville or anyone else—but someone did have to try to keep the students from outright killing each other.

Responsibility wasn't like him, but the war had changed things.

"You'll still be in check if you move your king there," he said, nodding to the chessboard where Neville was hesitantly drawing his king to a new tile. Ron had been trying to teach Neville chess for years, but Neville just didn't have the knack. "See my knight? Try again."

Neville sighed, running one hand through short, light brown hair. "I can't win, Ron. I can't see any way out of this corner you've boxed me into."

Ron looked down at the board, for all that he knew exactly where every piece was. He had always been good at chess, but it was a game that he had started resorting to more and more as the war wore on. He liked chess, but lately it seemed to be the only thing that could take his mind off the world outside the castle for any length of time.

"You have at least two ways out of check," Ron replied, before he turned around to scan the common room. Seamus wasn't around, probably holed up in their dorm, while his sister Ginny was sitting in a corner with a group of girls she wouldn't normally have much to do with, wearing a smile that Ron could only tell was fake from fifteen years of knowing her. She, too, had changed with the war—she spent more time with people than she had before, and different people at that, though Ron didn't think she enjoyed any of it. Among the younger students, there were the usual groups playing Exploding Snap, working on essays, or talking, but less trouble than he had become used to handling.

The resistance—the rebels, in the eyes of anyone that still supported the Ministry—had taken all of Scotland over the past month. From Shetland in the far north to the Lowlands near the big Muggle cities to the south, the resistance had burned or secured every Ministry outpost in Scotland except for Hogsmeade. And with Hogsmeade came Hogwarts.

The war was close and inching closer. The castle was thick with tension, and while most of the students who were left supported the resistance, the prospect of a battle fought on their doorstep was unnerving.

"I give up," Neville sighed again, and reached over to topple his king over. "I know you said that I could have escaped, but I just can't see it, Ron."

Ron smiled, leaning over to set the king back upright. "The key is that you were looking to get your king out of trouble—you could have sacrificed your rook instead by blocking my bishop, or your knight. You can't always be thinking of just saving pieces, Nev, you also have to think about sacrificing them when it's important to do it."

"I don't see how you can just… see these things." Neville shook his head, collapsing backwards into his armchair.

"It's just practice."

"But it isn't—you keep track of so many things in your head, and you're always playing about four moves ahead of me." Neville sagged a little more in his chair, closing his eyes. "I bet you'd be really amazing if you were with the resistance."

Ron blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Neville opened his eyes, looking over at Ron. "Er—well, isn't chess about tactics? Strategy? I was just thinking, it's not so different from planning a war, right?"

Ron let out a small laugh. "No way! A real war is way more complicated. With chess, I can see everything right when I look at the board. Chess has rules—the pawns can only move in a certain way, the bishops and the rooks and the knights, and they act in ways that can be predicted. A real war has problems like lack of information, or terrain, or unit loyalty, and people aren't anywhere near as predictable as chess pieces. And there are way more players. It's a lot harder, Nev."

Neville's smile was a little sly. "But that's a lot more than I understand, you know? What do you think will happen now?"

"Now?" Ron's smile disappeared as he leaned back in his own armchair. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think Voldemort will be doing now?"

Ron settled back into his armchair, staring into the crackling fireplace, and made a production over thinking about it. Red and orange flames bathed the logs, and the coals at the bottom glowed a steady red.

It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it before. He thought about the war incessantly, to an almost embarrassing degree, which was why he was failing most of his classes. He thought about the resistance's strategies, pulling out maps of Scotland from the library to track the new, shifting fronts. He thought about Voldemort's counter-strategies and tried to predict where Voldemort would go next or how he would react. He ate up the letters from his brothers, and the news in _Bridge _and the _Daily Prophet_ both, over breakfast and his morning spare hour, then he spent his classes deconstructing the latest enemy and ally moves. Sometimes, he found himself lost in thought, trying to figure out what would have happened if things had gone differently.

What would have happened if Voldemort had won the Hebrides? What about the Highlands—what would have happened if Voldemort hadn't chased the resistance into the Highlands? If he rewound to the beginning of the Scottish campaign, what would have happened if the resistance had opted to begin not on the outlying islands, but by breaking the siege on Queenscove?

The resistance was good. They had clearly had hidden safehouses throughout Scotland before beginning their campaign, so their supply lines were already secured before any of the fighting had begun. Then, they had gone for the islands first—the places that were already likely supportive of them, which would be harder for the Ministry to reach in time and easier for them to defend with a limited force afterwards. The loss of the dragon reservations had been an enormous blow, and much of the Highlands themselves had gone shortly thereafter. The last few successes, Inchcolm Port and the Edinburgh Portkey Hub, had effectively sealed off everything that Scotland needed to be an independent state.

At this point, Hogsmeade was isolated in enemy territory. If the war were a chess game and he the player in charge of the Ministry, Ron would have sacrificed Hogsmeade and withdrawn. Hogsmeade was an important wizarding community, but it was only on the level of a knight. It wasn't the king, or even the queen. But then, if he had been the player in charge of the Ministry, he would have also sacrificed the Highlands in favour of strengthening his position in Hogsmeade and the Lowlands.

"I don't know," Ron said finally, shaking his head. "If Voldemort were smart, he would go back to the Ministry in London. Even if he keeps sacrificing people, he won't be able to hold Hogsmeade in the long-term. But he also doesn't always do the smart thing—he chased the resistance into the Highlands where his troops were basically butchered. It's hard to tell. Like I said, people are a lot more complicated than chess pieces."

Neville sighed. "I know I should be hoping that he does the stupid thing, because it means that the war would be over quicker. But really, I just want him to leave."

"I know what you mean." Ron smiled, then reached for his chess set to set up a new game. He needed the distraction, or he'd spend the next several hours dwelling over whether Voldemort would make the sensible sacrifice and leave Hogsmeade. "Another game, Nev?"

Chess only distracted him for so long. He was still awake at four-thirty the next morning, sitting in the window seat overlooking Hogwarts with his mind whirling over the possibilities. It wasn't that he hadn't slept—he had told the two fifth-year prefects to keep an eye on the common room and turned in well before midnight after Neville had given up his third game, but he found he woke early, these days. Too early.

Voldemort had to be turning back. He had to see that defending Hogsmeade was a bad gamble. They were in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, completely surrounded by those who supported the resistance, and Ron would have bet every Galleon he did not have that even most of the people within Hogsmeade and Hogwarts itself supported the resistance. Voldemort was overextended in Scotland, and the smart thing to do would be to retreat to a better position. If Scotland were a chess game, Ron would have called checkmate in two; but if the war overall was the chess game, then it was still the middlegame, still too early to tell.

He chewed on his bottom lip, listening to Seamus and Neville's snores. For once, it was quiet—not that Seamus and Neville fought often, but Seamus was one of only a few Ministry supporters left in Gryffindor. Neville hadn't formally taken a position, though his family had joined with the resistance not long ago, and Seamus wanted someone, anyone, to take his side. Neville usually deflected any questions as to his position, but sometimes Seamus got aggressive, and Ron had to intercede. Their dorm was tense, the atmosphere itself tiring, and it was only in moments when everyone was asleep that Ron felt anything like peace.

It was because he was awake that he saw the lights—blurry in the distance, but bright against the dark, starless sky.

He straightened in his seat, staring out the window. From Gryffindor Tower, there was a sweeping view of the grounds. Their dorm window showed a view out to the front gates, and the lights were flashing, bobbing in the distance.

Someone was trying to get into the school, past the school wards. No, that didn't make any sense. That didn't make any sense at all.

Except that it did. It made a disturbing amount of sense, and Ron cursed himself soundly for not thinking about it. Ron thought too much about war—he thought too much about troop movements, about army sizes and access routes and the defensive value of particular strongholds, but he didn't turn his mind to thinking about the emotional impact of attacking a school. There was more than one way to win a war. Defeating the enemy on an open battlefield was only one of them.

Another was making the other side surrender. And a school full of hostages, mostly under the age of sixteen, not fully trained in magic yet, would be a very good way to pressure the resistance to surrender.

He needed to see more, and he ran for the stairs. From his dorm, he could only see the way to the front gates, but the common room would have wider views. If he were Voldemort, planning an assault on Hogwarts, he would not go through the front gates. The front gates were almost definitely the best defended—they were the primary entry point to the school, and therefore they had to be, but they weren't the only entry point.

He would bet every Galleon that he did have—all one of them, and therefore considerably more valuable to him than the ones that he didn't have—that whatever was at the front gates was only a small part of Voldemort's forces. If this were a chess board, this would be the beginning of the game, and it was poor planning to commit to only one line of attack. Especially when the target was _Hogwarts, _which had about as many holes as Swiss cheese.

There were dozens of secret passageways, and Ron knew that more than one of them stretched into Hogsmeade. Fred and George had shown him about three, and they used the passages many times when they were at school to get Butterbeer and candy for Gryffindor parties. Forgetting the secret passageways, there was also the _Forbidden Forest_—the walls didn't stretch around the Forest, and while there were werewolves and the gods only knew what else in the Forest, he doubted that would be a challenge for an army that willingly worked with both Dementors and vampires.

In the common room, he checked each of the windows—there were the lights bobbing outside the front gates, and he thought he could see a strange movement in the trees in the Forbidden Forest. It could have been a strong wind or just the natural magic of the Forest, but he didn't want to write it off. His gut instincts were telling him that it was more, and he fell back on the spells that all Prefects had been taught to use in case of an emergency.

He pulled his wand out and focused, and the tiny, golden messenger went off to alert the closest staff member.

It was only a few minutes before Professor Flitwick appeared. Without Professor McGonagall, the diminutive wizard had been doing double duty as the Head of both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, an easy task considering that the school had effectively shrunk. All the sixth- and seventh-year courses had been put together, and most of the elective classes were either cancelled or self-study only.

Even dressed in a thick dressing robe, Professor Flitwick's dark eyes were sharp and alert. "What is it, Mr. Weasley?"

"Outside," Ron said, keeping his voice down though he didn't know why. It wasn't as if they were close enough for Voldemort's forces, if they were indeed Voldemort's forces on their doorstep, to hear them. "Lights at the front gates, and there might be something in the Forbidden Forest, too."

Flitwick hurried to the window, quickly Summoning a stack of books to stand upon for a better view. He scanned the grounds, and his wand came out to make a dozen small movements as he examined both the front gates and the Forbidden Forest, his mouth tightening.

"Mr. Weasley, go wake your House," he snapped, his eyes still fixed on the grounds. "Direct them to the Great Hall, then go make sure the Slytherins are awake and do the same. I need to alert Albus."

"The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?"

"I will handle the Ravenclaws, and Pomona can wake the Hufflepuffs." Professor Flitwick was casting more spells, his wizened face becoming more serious by the second. "Go!"

Ron hurried back up into the dorms. It was quick work to wake Neville and Seamus, and to tell them to wake up the lower years—there were no more seventh-year Gryffindors to worry about, at least, though he could have wished for the seventh-year prefects to help him. He was the only one of them that could undo the usual spells on the girls' dorms, where he headed straight for the fifth-year dormitory to wake Ginny and get her help.

By the time he slipped into the dungeons, using the _Point Me_ spell to help him find the Slytherin common room, his nerves were in a jangle. Since there were almost no upper-year Slytherins left, including no Slytherin prefects, the other prefects had taken their turns responding to problems in that House, but Ron would never be comfortable in the low-lying room under the lake. He had avoided Slytherin duty as much as he could, leaving it to the few Ravenclaw prefects left, who had the best relationships within that House.

"Vitality," he told the blank stretch of wall in front of him, and it slid open. The room glowed with a dull green.

"What is it?" A huddled lump curled up on one of the couches sat up, her hair in minor disarray. Not a student that Ron knew, probably no more than a second or third year. "You're not—"

"We need to wake everyone up," Ron said, without explaining. "Get everyone to the Great Hall. As soon as possible."

The girl's eyes widened, and her face was pale in the green light. "What's happening?"

"Nothing good," Ron replied grimly. "To the Great Hall. Understand?"

The girl nodded, running for the girls' dorms, while Ron hurried to wake the boys.

He was halfway up the steps, chivvying a group of Slytherins along, when a grand, gong-like bell rang through the castle. The sound hung in the air, echoing through the stone corridors and hallways. A chill ran over the back of Ron's shoulders and down his arms, and he stopped, shivering.

"Attention, staff and students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Ron had never heard the voice before, but it didn't take him long to realize who it had to be. Voldemort—an address of this importance would never go to anyone else. It had to be Voldemort. "In light of recent rebel activity, the Ministry of Magic is taking control of the school to ensure the safety of our children. Kindly open your gates that we may assume control and prepare the appropriate defences for an anticipated rebel strike. You have one hour."

Kindly, my arse, Ron thought as he shook his head and hurried back up to the Great Hall, pushing along a few of the more frightened students. Not that he wasn't nervous, too—his heart was pounding in his chest, his arms shaking, though his mind was still clear and racing through the options. This was an opening move, and Dumbledore had to respond.

If Dumbledore opened the gates, he would be putting everyone in the school in danger. He had to know that—they all knew, by now, what the atmosphere was like among Voldemort's ranks. Most of those left at school were either from families that trusted Dumbledore, meaning that most of them were from resistance families or families that were still trying to remain neutral. But if he didn't, he would be declaring their support for the resistance, and inviting a strike from Voldemort himself.

How valuable was Hogwarts?

Valuable enough to be worth the risk, apparently.

The Great Hall was swirling with students when Ron arrived. Most of them were sitting at the House tables, not necessarily their own, clinging together in small clusters. Seamus was sitting alone at one end of the Gryffindor table, his face pale but with a stubborn tilt in his jaw, while others were whispering in fear. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were still streaming in, with the Slytherins coming in behind them.

The Slytherins needed no instructions to head to their own table, a few of the older students muttering that they'd look after the younger ones, so Ron made a beeline to Ginny, whose flaming red hair made her easy to spot in the crowd. "What's happening?"

"Not sure," she replied, looking around the Great Hall with wary eyes. "Seamus wants us to go ahead and open the gates, and he's not alone. But the professors haven't said anything yet. Neville is with Professor Dumbledore, by the way—you might want to check with him."

"Will do."

Neville was, true to Ginny's words, deep in discussion with Dumbledore. Ron frowned as he approached, only to see Neville nod. Their voices were quiet, but they weren't trying to hide their conversation.

"At least a hundred and sixty students for evacuation," he heard Neville say. "Aldon's not going to like this—you know how paranoid he is about Rosier Place."

"He will need to accept it," Dumbledore replied grimly. "Rosier Place would not have the space for all hundred and sixty anyway, but I trust he will take action and secure other places for the students. We need a place for them to go, and rather urgently if Voldemort keeps to the schedule he has set. We have fifty minutes, now."

"I understand. I'll be back as soon as I can." Neville took a deep breath, turning around and blinking when he saw Ron standing there. A moment of surprise, and then he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Ron. I've got to go."

"I thought you were neutral." Ron frowned. "Or at least, you were until recently."

"My family was," Neville replied with a shake of his head. "I'll explain later, but I really do have to go."

"Mr. Weasley." Dumbledore was calling him over, and Ron didn't have much choice but to let Neville disappear out of the Great Hall. "I'm told that you have a good head for chess."

"Er—" Ron cleared his throat, looking away. "I suppose so, but I don't think that's really helpful right now. I just came to see if you needed anything else to be done—organizing the students for evacuation, setting up defensive barriers, anything. I can get what's left of the prefects together to organize."

"Miss Chang is already organizing the students for evacuation." Dumbledore fell silent for a moment, looking over the Great Hall. "I am going to refuse Voldemort entry. There are too many children here that can be used as leverage, and we can't evacuate the students fast enough—it will be at least half an hour before Mr. Longbottom can make the appropriate preparations on the other end, and then we can only send them out in groups of six. At six-minute transit intervals, it will take three hours to evacuate everyone. If you were Voldemort, Mr. Weasley, how would you strike at the castle?"

Ron swallowed, feeling slightly light-headed. "This isn't something—I'm just good at chess. War is _nothing_ like chess. There are too many variables."

"Professor Flitwick also tells me about the doodles in the margins of your essays." Dumbledore tilted his head downwards, looking at Ron over half-moon glasses. "Strategy diagrams, he calls them. Mr. Weasley, I don't have a Stormwing here to guide the defences, and my professors are already setting up further defences on the grounds. I am not relying on you, only asking for your thoughts as someone who enjoys strategy and who might have considered this problem before."

"S-sure," Ron replied, though he had no idea what a Stormwing was, and he swallowed again. "If I were Voldemort, the group at the front gates would only be a decoy. There's no point to striking at the castle head-on—it's where our defences are strongest. I would split into three groups: one for the front gates for show, one to take the secret passageways from Hogsmeade into Hogwarts, and one to go through the Forbidden Forest."

"The passageways are set to collapse," Dumbledore replied, looking away in thought. "I will set them off shortly to block that route. I am less concerned with the passageways than I am the Forbidden Forest. I do not think we can defend the grounds…"

Ron hesitated, but Dumbledore had asked for his thoughts. That meant he could comment on Dumbledore's plans too. Probably. "First, I think we should collapse the passageways when Voldemort's troops are already in them. Whoever makes it through will be injured, and it'll be a better blow against Voldemort than just blocking them off. If we just block them off, we'll just face those people elsewhere. Second, I don't think defending the grounds is a good idea. There isn't enough cover, and there isn't enough worth defending on the grounds either. Unless the students are evacuating out of the grounds somehow, but from what you've said, I don't think they will be."

Dumbledore looked back at him, a look of mild surprise on this face, then he nodded. "Ah, yes. From the groups of six, I assume. We have a resistance Portkey Hub installed here in secret, but it only transports groups of six."

"Then we just should fall back to the castle," Ron replied, then he paused. He wasn't sure how to phrase the next part of what he wanted to say, nor was he sure whether his opinion was needed, but Dumbledore nodded for him to continue.

"Er—I can understand the reasoning behind defending the castle until we evacuate, but the school itself…" Ron stopped, looking down at the ground and frowning. If he considered only Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, then the smart thing to do would be to abandon the castle after the students were gone. The value of the castle was its student body, and less so the physical building itself. But in the context of the Scottish campaign, giving Voldemort the castle would leave him with a foothold in the Scotland, which was not a good idea. In the context of the wider war over Britain, leaving Voldemort with Hogwarts was a terrible idea.

But they didn't have anyone to defend the castle _with_. There were the professors, few enough to sit around the Head Table and without either a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor or Professor McGonagall, and there were maybe a dozen sixth- and seventh-year students who might be inclined to stay and fight. Maybe some fifth years too, but Ron wasn't even sure that they should stay. Ginny would insist on staying, he knew that much, and Mum would kill him for it later. If they survived.

"We don't have the people to hold the castle, Professor," he finished feebly. "If they assault us seriously, we can't hold for long."

Dumbledore's mouth was a grim line. "Mr. Longbottom will get a message to the resistance, who will be on their way shortly, but you are correct, Mr. Weasley. If Voldemort and his forces seriously assault the school, we will not hold."

XXX

The tapping on his mind was annoying, Aldon thought with a frown, slowly coming out from a deep sleep. Francesca was fast asleep beside him, her half-bare back pressed against his chest, and he looped one arm under her breasts and sleepily tugged her a little closer. She was warm and comforting, a calming presence for him to breathe in every night.

But the tapping sensation didn't stop, and it took him a couple minutes to realize that it was his Portkey Hub with an incoming access request. To Rosier Place, from Hogwarts.

From Hogwarts.

He startled awake, sitting up and pulling the blankets off himself and Francesca. Hogwarts was unusual, and there was only a handful of people who would be making a request from Hogwarts, and none of them would do it at this hour unless something critical had happened. Any other person would have had to head to an access panel to allow entry, but as the Lord Rosier, Aldon had more extensive controls. He signalled for his manor to permit the transit and swung his legs out from his bed.

There was a soft whimper beside him. "Aldon?"

"It's nothing," Aldon replied quickly, pulling the blankets back over her. "Go back to sleep, Francesca."

She had to have been tired because she didn't argue with him. Instead, she rolled, cocooning herself further in the nest of blankets, and fell back asleep. He reached for his clothes, dressing quickly in the dark, then grabbed his wand and shoulder holster with his sidearm. One could never be too careful.

He met Finch hovering around outside the Portkey Hub, looking worried as he wandered back and forth in the corridor. Finch had never been to Rosier Place, to Aldon's knowledge, so he hadn't known where to go.

"Aldon!" Finch's voice was relieved as he caught sight of him and hurried over. Aldon was disturbed to see that Finch had had a late growth spurt and was now taller than him. "Voldemort is outside Hogwarts. He's given Professor Dumbledore an hour to open the gates, which was twenty minutes ago, now. Professor Dumbledore needs to evacuate the students as soon as possible. A hundred and sixty students. We need to start as soon as possible—now, if we can. We have too many students, and at six per transit, it'll still take hours!"

Aldon snapped to attention, and without thinking about it, his wand came up to summon three Patronuses. One to Grimmauld Place, another to Potter Place, a third to Queenscove, to anyone awake. "Emergency. Report to Rosier Place immediately. Hogwarts needs to evacuate the students."

He hesitated to send Patronuses elsewhere—he didn't know the other Houses well enough, and as far as he knew, the other Houses likely wouldn't be inclined to hear from him anyway. Archie and Harry would have better success with the other Houses, he thought.

Much as he didn't like it, he would have to take at least some of the students. Not too many, if he could help it—he didn't want people of questionable loyalties in his manor, but he could hope it would only be for a few hours. He didn't have the troops to keep more than a hundred students in line, nor could he question every single one of them in time. He hoped the other houses would respond, and quickly.

"Has anyone contacted the forces yet?" he demanded. Hogwarts, to his knowledge, was entrenched but had little firepower of their own. There was only Dumbledore, and a dozen or so professors. Even the older students—Cardinal had reported that few of them had returned after the winter holidays, and he had heard from Robin that most Clan-kin sixteen and older had been summoned home for active duty. He didn't know how long Hogwarts could hold against a sustained assault.

"No, my instructions from Dumbledore were to arrange the evacuations with you." Finch shook his head, looking worried again. "Do you need me to go anywhere else?"

Aldon reached up, rubbing his eyes. A hundred and sixty students—he thought he could take twenty or thirty, on a short-term basis. He needed to drum up space, which seemed to a much harder proposition than it should be considering how many strongholds they did have. But not everyone they would be taking in would be their allies, and the security provisions they'd need—

He didn't have a choice.

"Can you go to your manor house?" he decided finally. "Grimmauld Place is small—Archie can probably only take a dozen or so, though Harry may be able to take more at Potter Place. She and Hurst still have most of a unit. Queenscove may be able to take more and has the equivalent of two units, but we won't have enough space here. I know there is no Portkey Hub to the Longbottoms yet—"

"I have a personal Portkey," Finch interrupted. "I can do it, and we can probably set up a couple mass transits from Potter Place, but—"

"But?"

"But Grandmother…" Finch took a deep breath and shook his head. "I'm guessing my utility as a spy is pretty much gone, isn't it?"

Aldon was surprised into a smile. "I suppose it is—I can't exactly integrate you anywhere else. We'll find another spot for you. Thank you for your service."

Finch saluted, a small smile in reply on his face. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll ask my mum or dad to Side-Along me back here, and then I'll go back to Hogwarts to help with the evacuations."

"Go, and good luck," Aldon replied, mentally altering the wards to allow Finch to Portkey out before he hurried back to his rooms. They had had enough time before the Scottish campaign to put together a few communication orbs, but since they had had limited resources, the focus was on the military units—between Lina and the Lord Potter, Moody and the Lord McLeod, between those who were most likely to need to communicate sensitive information quickly and effectively for battle. Lina had only just managed to obtain for one with him as the spymaster on the chance that he would receive time-sensitive relevant battle information from one of his spies that would need immediate transmission north. It was the work of a second to find the dark green orb, left on the nightstand beside his bed.

"Lina," he snapped, picking up his orb. "Lina, wake up."

There was silence on the other side—not surprising, considering it wasn't even dawn yet, but he didn't have much choice. He thought that their forces were secured in the Boyd Clanhome for the moment, but he wasn't sure, and this was exactly the sort of situation for which they had made the communication orbs. She had impressed on him that he needed to keep it close, and while they hadn't used it before, he hoped—no, he knew—that she would have hers close as well.

She didn't answer, so he tapped the orb again. "Lina, please. Wake up."

He waited impatiently, every second that passed seeming like an eternity. He needed to start working out where to place the children—the problem was that the vast majority of their units, everyone who could be spared, was in Scotland. They might have space to _take in _the children, but to maintain order? To defend them in the case of anything happening? A hundred and sixty children was not a small number, and he could take less than thirty.

"Mother, please," he said finally, and he was disturbed by how forlorn he sounded for a moment. But she had to answer. "Answer me."

"Now there's a demand I haven't heard in a long time," he heard a muffled, tired reply. "It took awhile for me to dig this out of my duffle bag, so calm down, Aldon. And I'm not your mother anymore, go to Christie if you want someone good at mothering. What happened?"

"Voldemort is striking at Hogwarts. Finch just reported to me, and Dumbledore is giving orders for evacuation."

There was a pause on the other side, and Aldon heard movement, a shifting body. "_Merde_."

Aldon winced. "Lina."

"You swear like a sailor in your own head, don't pretend like you don't." Lina yawned, but Aldon could tell that she was getting up hundreds of miles away. "This is not entirely unexpected, though we did hope that Voldemort would simply abandon Hogsmeade once the rest of Scotland was taken—"

"That would never have happened," Aldon replied flatly. "Never. It isn't in his nature."

"Well, we'd hoped that he would have been convinced by one of his advisors or his own Stormwings that holding it or doing anything with Hogwarts would be political suicide," Lina grumbled. "I'll mobilize the army, but if Dumbledore says they need to evacuate, they need to evacuate. Get the children out, we can send them all home later, and if you can get a message into Hogwarts, tell them we're on our way."

"How long will you be?" Aldon was calculating the time needed for evacuation already. They could start as soon as Finch made it back, and Finch knew how urgent it was, but even transporting out six at a time would be hard. They could aim at three minutes per transfer, which would be about an hour and a half, but realistically it would be longer than that. They couldn't count on getting the students moving quickly enough for three-minute transfers, and Portkey Hub theory recommended no more than one transit every eight minutes. Even if they rushed, it would likely take hours. "By my best guess, it'll take three hours to transit out all of the students, and Hogwarts only has Dumbledore and the professors for defence."

"We'll be there this morning, but I don't know how long it'll take before we can engage," Lina replied grimly. "It depends on what defences Voldemort has set on his back end—we might have to break through some barriers to get through to Hogwarts at all. It shouldn't take me more than an hour to mobilize the units here for a mass Apparition to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, assuming he hasn't blocked that off. We may also need to march some. I don't know yet, we'll need to strategize on the go. You'll need to handle the evacuation on your own."

"Very well." Aldon frowned. He didn't have to like it, but if it needed to happen, it needed to happen. Aldon felt another tap on his magical senses—the Portkey Hub again, this time from Grimmauld Place. "Archie's here. I have to go."

"Keep your comm orb close," Lina ordered. "I'll be in touch."

Archie was already heading to his study, Hermione beside him, when Aldon ran into him. Hermione's hair was frightful, a terrifying poof almost as big as another head, and she was pulling it back and spelling it into a knot that was only slightly neater. Aldon motioned them into the closest reception room and clapped for a house-elf. Hermione frowned at him but said nothing as Aldon ordered a platter of coffee.

"Is Harry coming?" Archie asked, with a big yawn.

"I'd hoped you could tell me that," Aldon replied with a raised eyebrow. "I did send a Patronus to Potter Place."

"Well, we aren't mind-melded," Archie muttered. "Though we considered it, once."

Hermione shot him a horrified look, one that Aldon was shocked to see was mirrored on his own face. A _mind-meld?_

"It was during the ruse, for one of those awful Galas," Archie said with a shrug. "Because she needed to be there as herself, and I didn't know anyone in Wizarding Britain really. We didn't _do_ it."

Hermione's face said clearly what she thought of the idea, but before she could say anything further, Aldon felt the tap of the Portkey Hub. Queenscove, this time. "Excuse me."

It wasn't Neal, but Percy Weasley who had been sent over from Queenscove, deep bags under his eyes showing his own tiredness. "Dawn watch," he said by way of explanation, his mouth turned down in worry. "I received your Patronus and came as soon as I could alert one of the captains. My brother and sister?"

"I haven't heard anything about them," Aldon replied, feeling another tap—this time coinciding with a flash of the access panel, which anyone except for him would have needed to use. Potter Place, this time. He reached over and input the symbol to allow transfer. "Finch was rather in a hurry."

Harry was coming out of the Portkey Hub, her green eyes sharp even if it was obvious that she had dressed in a hurry. Her robes were wrinkled, and she still smelled of the Potions laboratory. "An evacuation of Hogwarts?" she asked, sounding far more awake than anyone had a right to be at five in the morning.

"Yes," Aldon confirmed, leading the way to the reception room. "We need to work out numbers and the logistics—once Finch returns from the Longbottoms, he'll return to Hogwarts and help on that end, but we need places for all the students to go."

"We should have at least one line of communication open with Hogwarts." Harry's eyes were focused, her eyebrows pinched together in worry. "But other than Patronuses, messengers would tie up their Portkey Hub…"

"I've already alerted Lina—she is mobilizing the forces to go to Hogwarts now," Aldon replied, with a small shake of his head as he motioned for Harry and Percy to go ahead of him into the reception room. He felt another prickle against his wards, and a quick command to his manor to show him his wards revealed that it was Finch and his mother. He allowed them entry, then hurried to meet them.

By the time he returned, his house-elves had returned with a carafe of coffee and half of the people in the room were already indulging, and few people were quietly talking. Finch had made a motion for the Portkey Hub, but Aldon had shaken his head and pulled him along with him to the meeting. While they needed to begin evacuations as soon as possible, rushing now would only cause more delay down the line unless they kept the Portkey Hub lines as clear as possible. They needed something that looked like a plan.

"Evacuation," Aldon said, his voice cutting through the chatter, his mind already set. "Rosier Place can take the first four groups—we do not have space for a hundred and sixty students, and while we are entrenched, we have almost no defensive forces at all. My forces right now consist of myself, Draco, and Aman. I can't possibly maintain control of a hundred and sixty students, nor can I begin transferring students out to different safehouses while still taking in evacuees from Hogwarts. Further, if we were attacked, we have less by way of physical defences than either Potter Place or Queenscove."

"I think an attack is unlikely if Voldemort is at Hogwarts now," Harry snorted, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. "But if that's your position, Potter Place will take in the rest."

"Are you sure, Harry?" Archie's voice was concerned, and his frown was very different from hers. "If Rosier Place takes the first twenty-four, that's still at least hundred and forty left! Even if you have an entire unit left, that's only going to be a dozen people to look after more than a hundred upset kids. Grimmauld is small, but I can take two groups, at least for a few hours. Older kids, if you can manage it—Hermione and I just have half a unit with us, and we do live on top of a bomb."

"Our manor also doesn't have a unit," Alice Longbottom added, her blue eyes bright. "But my mother-in-law has taken in most of our extended family, so we can take as many children as we need to take in—perhaps we should simply split them equally among our remaining houses."

"That would be fine," Percy agreed. "Neal has given me authorization to accept as many students as needed—Queenscove is well entrenched and continues to have the equivalent of two units."

"We can simply rotate the last three," Aldon decided quickly. "If we rotate the transits, we'll be more likely to get through them quickly, though it will put strain on the Hogwarts Portkey Hub. But we might be able to move them faster than the normal Portkey Hub transit recommendations allow—"

"We'll need a contact within Hogwarts," Harry said, standing up. "A third of the remaining will still be some fifty students—I need to get back to Potter Place to prepare. But we need a connection to carry information and messages that doesn't tie up the Portkey Hubs—the Portkey Hubs should be evacuations only."

"Patronuses?" Archie suggested. "But with Wales—"

"And the distance isn't small, from here to Hogwarts," Harry interrupted, looking pointedly at Aldon. "We need something more secure—a communication orb."

Aldon's lips tightened. "You want me to go to Hogwarts."

"It's what makes sense," Harry replied, her green eyes steady. "You have a connection both to the army, and another connection here."

It took a moment for Aldon to recognize her meaning, and he grimaced. He did have another communication orb here—he and Francesca had one for when she was at school. He was the logical choice, but he didn't like it.

It meant leaving Rosier Place in Francesca's hands, along with his mother and the rest of Blake & Associates. While he had faith that they would well be able to care for his manor in the usual circumstances, and he had left the manor before, he had never done so without Lina or Moody present. And they would be allowing in another two dozen students to his grounds, who would need supervision. Were that not enough, he would also be going into an active war zone, where there was every possibility that the school could be overwhelmed before Lina and her forces reached them. He was not a fighter—not the way that Alex was, or Neal, or even Harry.

But he didn't have much choice. It was a developing situation, and someone needed to be on hand in Hogwarts to see and pass on information as necessary to the houses in Britain taking the students. Similarly, someone needed to be able to pass Hogwarts information about developing situations among the students or in the safehouses, so that they could redirect the evacuees as necessary. He was the only one who had a communication orb connection both to Rosier Place and to their forces on the move.

"It's quarter past five," Finch added, shifting anxiously on his feet. He had never sat down, and had instead hovered in the doorway, looking for the moment that he could move for the Portkey Hub. "Voldemort's announcement said an hour, and it's been at least forty-five minutes. That's too long, we need to start evacuations _now_."

Aldon sighed, bringing one hand to his head. He didn't have a choice.

"Let me wake Francesca," he said, and his voice was devoid of any emotion. "Then I'll get my rifle and the communication orbs, and we'll be on our way."

Francesca was already rolling over when Aldon strode back into his bedroom, her dark eyes blinking sleepily. "What is it, Aldon?"

"The school is being attacked," he replied, reaching over to touch her on the shoulder. "I need to go there to help with the evacuation and act as a communication link with both the army and here—we'll be taking in two dozen students. You'll need to look after the wards and the manor while I am gone."

She sat up, several emotions flicking across her face in a pattern that Aldon couldn't follow. "I—how soon will you be back?"

"As soon as I can."

"Is it—will you be all right?"

Aldon took her hand, small in his, and squeezed gently. "I'll come home. I swear it."

"Don't make me promises you can't keep, Aldon." She sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I'll wake up everyone else. Go on, do what you need to do."

He could have wished for more—he didn't know. More than a dismissal, but he didn't have time to worry about it. Instead, he pulled her close, not caring if he was being too rough about it and pressed his lips hard against hers. "I will be back," he swore anyway, before he went off to grab everything he needed and to meet Finch by the Portkey Hub.

Finch was well ready to leave by the time that Aldon was at the Portkey Hub, his wand out and casting a _Tempus_ Charm. Five-thirty, the magic flashed. "We have to go," he said, looking down at Aldon, his face frozen in worry. "Everyone else has gone, they're preparing their Houses to receive students."

"Fine," Aldon said, opening the door to the Portkey Hub and mechanically checking for his weapons. Wand in his holster on his right arm, ACD on his left, already on with the batteries full. His sidearm was at his waist, and his rifle hung on his back. "Let's be on our way. Francesca will need several minutes to wake the manor and get ready—perhaps we should send two first groups to Grimmauld Place."

Finch headed into the Portkey Hub and grabbed onto the ring, reaching for the access panel. Aldon barely managed to grab onto the ring as well before the magic took hold and whisked them to Hogwarts.

He came out in a familiar seventh-floor corridor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls how the dance. Neither the famously batty wizard nor the trolls were in the tapestry, and the scene across from him showed only an empty room with wooden floors and a high barre. The floor underneath them was shaking, a low rumble echoing down the hallways. For a moment, Aldon was disoriented; it had not been that long since he had left, but he was coming back in completely unforeseen circumstances. He wasn't dressed in his school uniform, he was carrying Muggle weapons, and he no longer fit here.

Finch tore off down the hallway, intent on the Great Hall, and Aldon followed. He couldn't help but keep an eye on the castle around him—there were so many things that were the same, and so many that were different. The portraits around him were empty, their inhabitants elsewhere, while the plinths that once held suits of armour and statues stood bare. The floors of the castle shook now and then from what sounded like fresh blasts of power, and Aldon staggered as the floor moved from under him, sending him careening into a wall.

They ran into Ron Weasley running up the Grand Staircase, a group of older students in tow.

"Neville!" His face lit up, sounding relieved. "You've been nearly an hour! And Rosier."

"I would have been faster, but Aldon held me back to plan the evacuations," Finch said, sounding out of breath. While he had shown no sign of his tiredness while moving, Aldon could now see that he was running on adrenaline and panic, not athleticism.

Aldon that thought that Weasley would say something scathing in reply, but instead the redhead only nodded in understanding, motioning for the other older students with him, including Cardinal, to keep moving upwards. "Sometimes, it is better to move slow, in order to move fast," he said. "Better to work out any foreseeable problems now instead of getting snared by them later. Cho has the students organized in groups of six, a mix of older students with younger students in each, a mix of political beliefs too. Hopefully, they'll be able to take care of themselves until you can find better places for them. They're ready to go as soon as you have a place for them to go."

"We do," Aldon interjected. "First two groups to Grimmauld Place—older students if possible, Grimmauld Place has few defences but is effectively a bomb in and of itself, Archie will not be able to handle more than two. Next four to Rosier Place, where my—Francesca—will look after them, and the remainder to be split between—"

"Sure," Weasley replied, shaking his head and turning away. "Sounds great. I have to run—we're holding the castle while everyone gets out, I'm organizing the defense from the towers. Height advantage is always good. I'll see you when the dust settles. Nev, the students and Dumbledore are in the Entrance Hall, which is a little better defended than the Great Hall. Less windows."

"You got it," Finch said, taking a deep breath and continuing his mad dash down the stairs. Aldon nodded at Weasley in acknowledgement and followed.

The castle was still shaking under him, and there was another, louder rumble as the floors shook and Aldon clung to the bannister of the stairs. It was different than the other strikes—those had been momentary, a second or two of shaking, but this sound lingered for several seconds in the air. It was the sound of rock falling, an avalanche of noise, almost as if one of the towers or walls themselves had collapsed.

"Shit," Finch panted, but they were nearly at the bottom of the stairs anyway. He jumped the last six steps and ran to Dumbledore, who immediately began motioning for groups to proceed to the stairs. Finch shook his head, but a quick report later, and he was again running up the stairs. Aldon considered calling after him to be careful of the recommended times between transfers, but let it go—it would probably take a few minutes to set the children up between transfers anyway, and Finch had a good head on his shoulders.

"Lord Rosier," the Headmaster turned, seeing him, and Aldon could see his eyes flicker to the Muggle weaponry he carried. "I assume you are here as a communication link."

"That is correct." Aldon nodded. "The resistance army is coming—Lina estimated an hour to mobilize, but they may have to fight their way through obstacles left by Voldemort to get here. I am linked to both the army and to my manor, where my intended is waiting to receive evacuees as well."

"Mr. Longbottom is apprised of your plans, I am sure." Dumbledore turned away, looking thoughtfully at the grand, wooden doors that had only been closed after curfew when Aldon had been a student. They gave another massive shake, as something on the outside hit them with massive force. "Voldemort has not yet passed our front gates, but he is making every attempt to do so. A second group of his fighters have already made their way through the Forbidden Forest, while a third I have trapped in the passageways. We will not hold forever; our wards are strong, but fundamentally, we are a school, not a fortress. We have too many openings to defend. Tell me, Lord Rosier—I hear that you have been using a simple test to screen visitors at your manor."

Aldon frowned. "The one wherein I demand that they state whether they mean harm to me, my manor, or to those within my manor?"

"Simple, but clever," the Headmaster mused, examining the shaking walls of Hogwarts Castle.

"Hardly helpful, unless one is a Truth-Speaker," Aldon retorted, hearing a noise from one of the communication orbs in his pocket. He fished it out, recognizing from the darker green that it was Lina. "Lina, I'm at Hogwarts."

"Why the _fuck_ are you at Hogwarts?" She swore on the other side. "Couldn't you think of anything better than going _yourself_ to Hogwarts with that brain of yours? Voldemort left a coven of vampires to guard his back, as well as an Anti-Apparition Ward for some distance—we're on our way, but we're delayed."

"We've started evacuations on the inside," Aldon reported quickly. "Rosier Place is only taking twenty-four evacuees—the remainder will be split among other houses. Dumbledore has collapsed some of the passageways within the castle to limit access, but there are forces moving through the Forbidden Forest."

"How long can the school hold?" Lina demanded. "Do you know?"

"Some hours yet," Dumbledore replied directly. "But not indefinitely. We have too many openings, and not enough defenders to retaliate against an attack. I am considering our options."

There was a pause from the communication orb. "Have you considered destroying the school after you evacuate? Not a popular move, to be sure, but it you cannot hold and we cannot get there in time, it is better to destroy the school to keep Voldemort from holding it."

"The young Mr. Weasley made the same suggestion," Dumbledore replied, smiling slightly. "But I could not—there is simply too much magical knowledge within these walls for me to destroy it. However, you can rest assured that Voldemort will never hold these walls, Lina."

There was an uncomfortable pause on the other side. "Very well. I leave that to you. We'll be there as soon as we can. Aldon—"

"Lina?"

A sigh. "Don't die. Your mother would be crushed, and I don't want to deal with it."

"I shall endeavour not to," Aldon replied dryly, hearing the unspoken concern. "Just get here quickly, Lina."

He heard only a crackle in a reply, the sound of Lina putting her communication orb away.

"Now, Lord Rosier." Dumbledore was looking at him, a very serious look in his blue eyes. "To return to your test, do you think that a spell or ward could be developed to bar entry to Hogwarts to those who mean it and its students harm?"

"In magic, anything is possible." It was an aphorism recited through every magical theory class Aldon had ever sat through, and even repeated in the better texts that he had managed to get his hands on since his graduation. "The issue, Headmaster, is that of magical power."

"A pithy answer," Dumbledore noted. "I suppose that you'd then say that it would be more magical power than any person has to do such a thing."

Aldon hesitated—he hadn't thought it through, but already the problems were obvious. It included too many areas of magic: Legilimency, ward construction, magical theory, possibly Charms depending on whether it was a ward or a spell… While an interesting thought, it was not one that they had time to explore in only a few hours under attack. "I wouldn't know, Headmaster. But my experience working in magical development over the past year suggests so, and since no such spell is known to exist, there would be exponentially more power required for a spell guided on intent alone. Hayashida's Law."

Dumbledore nodded, looking away as if very far into the distance, his expression inscrutable.

XXX

Aldon never told her anything. Not until she pushed him on it, or unless someone else pushed him to it.

Francesca had been awake almost from when he had first gotten up. Initially, she had opened her eyes to see darkness, and had curled back up to go back to sleep—it was normal for Aldon to wake before she did, and she usually slept an hour or so longer than he did anyway. But no more than a few minutes later, she had woken up again, feeling something wrong.

It was earlier than Aldon normally woke. That much she could tell, scrambling for her watch. It hadn't even been five in the morning yet, and without the dhampir unit close by, Aldon hadn't been rising at six to train but worked in an hour with Draco later in the day. She couldn't feel anything from the wards—the manor only woke her or carried her information in an emergency, but she worried. Something was wrong. Aldon wouldn't have left her so early if it wasn't, and there was something about the way he had said _it's nothing_ earlier that left her suspicious. It was too quick a denial.

She had slipped down to Aldon's study to listen in, the primal keystone being the only place in the manor where she could exercise the control over the manor that Aldon had anywhere he went. The manor, obligingly, had let her listen in, and she had even asked it not to tell Aldon about her spying on him. Had he found out, he no doubt would have returned and sent her to bed. He could have relied more on others. He could have relied more on _her._

But he wouldn't, so instead she had to slip down and find out what was happening for herself.

Even when he had come back to wake her, he had kept it to the bare necessities. Francesca knew better than Aldon thought she did about the dangers he put himself in, but she couldn't be fully sure why he hid it from her.

She would never have tried to stop him. She would have worried, but not the same way she knew that Christie worried about him. The war that Aldon was fighting was his version of the ACD, and indeed, she would think much less of him if he _didn't_ put himself in danger when the war called for him to do so.

But for the moment, she was watching the first few groups of students arrive from Hogwarts and helping to direct them all to the formal dining room. A simple breakfast had been laid out, mainly pastries with toast and various spreads, along with coffee, tea, hot chocolate, juice, and water. The students were a mix—some older, but mostly younger, and they all had the same sort of look to them.

Scared. Not just of what was happening, but of where they were. A few of the youngest seemed to be carrying stuffed toys with too-tight grips, and they all wore stiff, blank expressions, as if they were simply too scared to cry. Some of them were looking around, their eyes wide. Only a few had managed to grab anything like regular clothing; most of them were still in their pyjamas. The oldest students seemed most preoccupied with the younger ones, barely giving Francesca more than a glance or a slight, tentative nod of acknowledgement. She wasn't familiar to them. She was part of the war.

Francesca had no idea what she was supposed to do. She had woken everyone else in the manor, but with the exception of Draco, she didn't think any of them would be familiar to the evacuees, and familiarity and control would probably give them the most comfort. All she could do was make sure that there was food and drinks available. She wasn't good at this. This wasn't what she was good for, and she didn't like feeling so out of place and useless.

"Er—" There was a tap on her shoulder, and she turned to face a young Asian woman, around her age or a little older, with a tired, stressed look in her dark eyes. "My name is Cho—Cho Chang. Thank you very much for hosting us."

"Francesca Lam. And it was Aldon's decision," Francesca mumbled, looking down at the floor. She recognized the name—Cho Chang had been listed as one of the strategists for the Hogwarts team for the Triwizard Tournament. Aldon certainly knew her, but he'd never mentioned her. "Any thanks should go to him, not me. Do you—is there anything else that I can do for you? Is there anything that you need? Blankets or bedding, maybe, or… I don't know."

Cho shook her head. "I'll look after them, with the older students. We won't cause any problems, I promise. I was only going to tell you, you don't need to stand here and wait on us. If there's anything you need to do, you can feel free."

Francesca hesitated, then she nodded, trying to think of what Aldon would do. With so many people in the manor, and without their usual forces, she was worried and uncomfortable. Aldon would have at least had the assistance of the manor to keep an eye on things, and the ability to review the wards at will, but Francesca didn't.

"I'll—please don't wander," she said finally, making up her mind. She would check on the wards, then she would check on Christie and Draco and the others, who were helping to direct the kids from the Portkey Hub, before she came back. She didn't know what else to do. "Aldon wouldn't—we have a lot of, um, security spells and so on, so it's safer not to wander. If you need anything, if you clap twice, one of the house-elves will come and get me."

"Will do," Cho replied, with a tentative smile. "Thank you."

XXX

Lina set her communication orb back in her pocket. It had started raining—of course it was bloody goddamn raining, why wouldn't it be raining sheets of ice water on them all in the middle of the most important battle for Scotland?

Annoyed, she flicked out her wand and set up an umbrella spell and went to meet the other commanders. Captain Dragić was gone already—sunrise would be delayed by the rain, but they had only an hour or so to catch the coven in the open for an extermination campaign. Once vampires went to ground, finding them tended to be harder, and handling them with anything other than arson—typically frowned upon by magical and Muggle government alike—was messy.

The Anti-Apparition wards stretched a few miles out from both Hogsmeade and Hogwarts—not as far as out as Lina had feared, but far enough to make a difference. At a quick march with the assistance of magic, Lina expected they could march four or five miles in an hour, but she would rather the army conserve their magic for an actual battle. That meant marching at no more than three miles in an hour, and they'd already been struck by the vampire coven left behind.

There would no doubt be more obstacles in the way. Voldemort was not so stupid that he wouldn't leave a defence on his back end, and even if he were, his Stormwings would no doubt have arranged for defences. As obvious as it might have been that Voldemort didn't always listen to them, Lina couldn't always count on the man's stupidity.

"Hogwarts has begun evacuating," she said succinctly, joining James, Alastor, Flint and the three Clan Lairds and Ladies standing in the open. The rest of them were spread out elsewhere, but the Laird Cameron and Lady MacLaggen were carrying communication orbs linking the rest into their meeting. "Aldon is in Hogwarts and can act as both a connection into Hogwarts and back to Rosier Place. Voldemort's army is already on the grounds—they cut through the Forbidden Forest, always one of the castle's weak points. Dumbledore has already collapsed some of the passageways—I assume that Aldon meant the passages into the castle from Hogsmeade, so that option is out."

"Do you have any brilliant ideas for a plan?" James asked, looking into the distance as if he could see the castle itself. Normally, in daytime, he would have been able to, but not at this hour, nor in this downpour. "Lord Dumbledore won't be able to just open the gates for us get in to defend the school, and without the passageways—"

"The air troops could get there faster," Flint said, his arms crossed on his chest. "But there aren't many of us, so if we were to go ahead, I'd want us to join forces with those in the castle. If we had any more of those bombs—"

"We used them in the Edinburgh Portkey Hub attack and haven't been able to make more," Lina interrupted. "No time. And in this rain, I doubt it would be very effective anyway, but I can pass a message through to Hogwarts to drop some of the wards to allow entry. If it's restricted to tower-levels, I don't think Voldemort will notice in time."

"Works for me. We'll be on our way—should be there in less than half an hour." Flint nodded sharply, then turned away to find his air units.

"As for the rest of us, by the time we get there, chances are the gates will be open." Sirius sighed, his face creased with worry. "Let's just go and hit them from behind, split their forces. Squish them between us and the castle."

"Whatever's left of the castle," Alastor muttered darkly. "I don't have a better plan—we don't have the information or the time. We should split up. Each of our individual ground units should be large enough to sustain a rearguard action, especially if we remain close enough to provide support to each other. Voldemort will have most of his forces committed to Hogwarts right now, especially if he's divided his army into three groups for different entrances as Rosier suggests he did. Keep your comm orbs close, and yell if you hit anything. If we can get at least some of us close enough for support, it's better than nothing."

Lina thought about it, then she grimaced. She couldn't think of anything better either, and they were still a few miles out from both Hogsmeade and the castle. They needed to get moving. "I agree—we'll have to plan as we go. It'll be at least another hour before we manage to get to the castle, though Dumbledore did say they could hold for some hours."

"Then let's go," the Laird Cameron grunted, turning to look up at the skies. "This miserable rain will keep us from moving as quickly as we'd like, and the troops won't be as attentive as they should be."

He was right. It was the work of only a few minutes for her to pass the message onto Aldon that Flint's air units were on their way, and for her to collect her units and head out. Her own units were obviously unhappy with the weather, but they didn't complain. They had lived through worse, these past few months. They knew they'd soon be in battle anyway, and they showed it the way that soldiers did—some laughed louder than they ever had before, others withdrew into meditative silence, many seemed to be running over spells and weaponry as if just reminding themselves of their spells and weapons would guarantee their survival. There was nothing that would guarantee anyone's survival, a fact that Lina knew better than most, but she left them to it.

The grass and hills were slippery under their feet, but she saw little. Part of it was the freezing downpour, but Lina also didn't expect to see much by way of resistance this far from the scene of the action. Voldemort would be keeping his forces close to him, and this far out she expected creatures or wards to be the issue. None of those yet, either.

A grim silence seemed to choke them as they marched—slower than she wanted to march, but they did need to move carefully. She knew that Alastor's forces were somewhere to her right, and James' to her left, but she couldn't see them. Occasionally, she would hear a crackle from one of the several orbs carried in her pockets, confirming their position and their status, but there was nothing yet. Their voices were quiet, strained, and as they walked every awkward laugh from one of her soldiers sounded strange against the heavy downpour.

She couldn't help but keep track of the distance as they marched. A half-mile, and then a mile. The tension increased the closer they got to Hogsmeade—there were only so many ways into Hogwarts, and the easiest path was through Hogsmeade. From their approach, they would pass through Hogsmeade, though several of the others wouldn't. Clans Ross, McAllister and McLeod were picking their way through rougher Highland terrain but would be approaching from the side of the Forbidden Forest. She could only imagine how their units would be faring at that knowledge. Even as a Stormwing, she would have been nervous entering the Forbidden Forest, because she was trained to fight against other witches and wizards, not other sentient beings. Centaurs, manticores and acromantula obeyed different rules than humans, and she had no wish to tangle with any of them.

A mile out from Hogsmeade, she ran into a ward. The air in front of her flared blue, and as tempted as she was to kick at it, she was no longer in her twenties and not quite as reckless. She held up a hand, then motioned for Bill Weasley, one of her unit captains, to come over.

"Tell me about this," she ordered bluntly, keeping her voice low. "Or break it. I don't much care which."

She didn't know him well, but the wizard's face was serious as he leaned forward to examine the ward. "A standard alarm and barrier ward," he muttered, his wand out to probe at the spells. "I don't know if I have enough power to break it on my own—no. Wait. There's a weakness—if I hit it here, while someone at least a half-mile way hits it as well, it should collapse."

Lina frowned. They had been some time—Flint should have passed these awhile ago, and she hadn't heard anything about a barrier spell from him. "Does it go all the way around, like a dome?"

Weasley shook his head, though he hit the ward with another spell. A crackle of blue light spread up in the air, but Lina couldn't see where it ended in the rain. "If it were only an alarm-spell, probably, but actively walling people out needs quite a lot more power. It only goes up about forty feet, if we levitate ourselves that far up, we can cross without a problem."

Lina grimaced. That much magic was not something that she wanted to use. "But you can break it with someone more than half a mile away?"

"Should be able to collapse it," Weasley confirmed. "But I need to coordinate with someone at least half a mile away."

Neither James nor Alastor would be more than a half-mile away, so she would need to reach out to one of the groups further away. She didn't have a direct connection to most of the Clans, but Laird Cameron did—she dug in her pocket for the marble-sized communication orb that linked her to him. "Cameron. Are you at a barrier?"

"Just reached it."

"I have a Curse-breaker with me who can break it, but we need someone at least a half-mile away. Can you confirm your location?"

"Not far enough." There was a rustle. "Let me check with MacMillan, he's the end of this line."

The minutes seemed to slip away under them. Lina drew a wand, casting _Tempus_—they had been almost an hour already, moving much slower than she had hoped they would. Between the rain, the general caution, and now this barrier, they were only being more delayed.

"MacMillan has someone," Cameron confirmed. "And he's just over a half-mile from your location. Give him a moment and we'll link him in."

A moment felt far too long, but when Cameron flashed back on, Lina could hear someone through a second communication orb. The links weren't perfect—over two connections, the background noise of the rain seemed disproportionately louder. In any case, she held her orb out to Weasley, who immediately began providing instructions and coaching whoever it was on the other end.

Whoever it was on the other end wasn't a Curse-breaker. They had precious few of them in the army—there was Weasley and one other under James' command, but whoever it was with MacMillan couldn't have specialized in ward-breaking. It sounded from the conversation like she worked in another area of magical experimentation, because Weasley was spending far too long coaching her into finding the weak point at all.

Not too long, she corrected herself, annoyed. Too long would be making everyone levitate forty feet in the air instead of just _breaking_ the ward. She was just anxious to be at Hogwarts because Aldon was there.

Most of a year into war, and Aldon was still not at the point where Lina ever wanted him anywhere near anything like active combat. He was fine holding Rosier Place, largely because his manor provided him with such strong protections and additional abilities, but she would never choose to take him on a campaign. Fortunately, he had never asked to go along—whatever might be said, her foster son was generally aware now that he was not a fighter, which had the additional benefit that he also acted with extreme violence when he needed. Unlike many of her soldiers who still struck to wound or incapacitate only, Aldon didn't hesitate to kill.

A bright flash lit up in front of her, blue and orange crackling across a barrier. There was a sizzle, raindrops that hit the lights going up in steam, then the whole structure seemed to collapse in on itself leaving only a burnt mark on the ground. Lina didn't hesitate to step over it, and maybe it was a good thing that she had, because then the Dementors were on them.

"_Patronuses!"_ She yelled, her own wand already in play, and her wolverine leapt into action to defend the first few rows. There were dozens of the spectral creatures, drawing deep rattling breaths in the air and she knew that with a month of campaign to draw on, the Dementors would find much fear to feed on in her troops. But they didn't have time to deal with Dementors—killing the creatures would drag them down too long.

"_Don't_ waste your time fighting them," she snapped, seeing Weasley's weasel leap into the face of the nearest Dementor and whipping around to face the rest of her units. "They should _guard only_. Focus on the goal, everyone—we need to move onto Hogwarts!"

With that said, she strode forwards, her Patronus leading the way. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see dozens of silver Patronuses coming into being around her, a circus of ghostly creatures surrounding them and holding the Dementors at bay.

"Lina," Aldon's voice came from her pocket, and she scrambled for the orb. "We're half-done the evacuation, but the front gates have fallen. Flint's arrived, and we're still holding the castle, but—"

"But?"

"Please do hurry, if you can," he replied finally, endlessly polite. "I'm two-thirds out of rifle bullets, too—most of my shots are going wide with magical interference."

Lina shook her head, pocketing the orb, and refused to think about the possibilities of what might happen if they didn't make it there in time. They would make it there in time because she would make it happen, and they were already within two miles of the castle. Hogwarts Castle would hold because it had no choice _but_ to hold, and because Dumbledore had said that it would.

The Dementors still slowed them down—they hovered just outside the circle formed by their Patronuses, haunting, and she could hear her forces muttering behind her. Even with the Patronuses, grim dread hung in the air. People were moving slower than before, wading their way through blunted fear-terror thick as mud.

The streets of Hogsmeade were eerily empty when they arrived. Sensible—no one could miss the flashes of light and magic from the castle overlooking the village, even if they could hear nothing. As they came closer, Lina could see James' and Alastor's forces narrowing in closer to hers, funnelled by the narrow streets of Hogsmeade, as they marched on towards the castle. There was a noise on her right, and she glanced over to see a unit of Voldemort's followers ambushing Alastor's group.

Her wand was out, and there was a mutter through her forces, but Alastor was shaking his head and making a hand signal for them to move on. A quick assessment showed that Alastor had them outnumbered.

"He has it," Lina snapped, turning around to face her own units. "Defend yourself if you're targeted, but we move onto Hogwarts. Leave Alastor's group to handle the rearguard, there aren't enough of them for us to leave off the main mission!"

There was a crashing _boom_ from the direction of the castle, cutting through the sound of the wind and rain, and Lina whipped around to look. A bright, white light was glowing from the castle, expanding, and she could see a pearlescent blue tint. That tint was unmistakeable even if she had never seen it—thirty years a mercenary, and she had only ever heard legends.

"Shit," she muttered, then she looked back at Alastor, who had paused in his direction to stare upwards. Even if she couldn't make his features out clearly from his distance, she knew that he had gone pale, and she saw the quick shake of his head as he turned back to battle. She looked back at her own troops, half of whom were staring at her, the other half up towards the school. "Let's move it, everyone. Double time!"

And then, she ran.

The front gates, once wrought iron with the school name and crest worked in gold, lay twisted on the ground. Small pieces of gold littered the ground before them, quickly being covered in mud, any remnant of the name and crest completely unrecognizable. Chunks of the walls, never very high or thick to begin with, had been blasted forwards, and stone rubble dotted the grounds. The white light that she had seen from Hogsmeade still glowed, the spell for which whoever had sacrificed their life-force sinking into the cold stone.

Dumbledore had promised that Voldemort would never hold his school. He was the only one who could possibly have known the spells. Life-force magic was a closely guarded secret, and while some few people knew the theory, very few indeed knew the keys to unlocking it. Indeed, as far as Lina knew, only Stormwings were ever explicitly taught the skills, but even for them—

The price of life-force magic was life, and that meant all of life. That meant what remained of life, along with their souls and the potential for an afterlife, and no one made that choice easily. Not even if no one knew for certain whether there even _was_ an afterlife.

She slammed into back of the enemy phalanx, no time to spare for an inspirational speech for her troops. It was well past sunrise by now, by almost two hours, but with the rain, the grounds were still cloaked in predawn gloom, and Voldemort's people had been in a fight for some hours now. They were tired, and her units were still fresher than they were, even after a march. Or, maybe it was just that Lina herself was especially motivated to strike, because Aldon was in that castle and if Dumbledore had done everything he could do, then there were preciously few people left in the castle to look after him.

Her wand was drawn, and her side-arm too. One of the dark shapes closer to the castle turned to her, and she blew him back with a Blasting Curse before setting him on fire. The beacon lit up the ground before her, giving her plenty more targets.

She had just enough concentration and breath for one Killing Curse, which fortunately found its mark in someone she belatedly recognized as Rabastan Lestrange, before she was set upon by others. A fire-spell on one direction, then a dodge from a curse she hadn't heard, a Vertigo Jinx to slow someone before throwing a whip curse, more Bombardment Spells and Blasting Curses, and she forced herself forward. People went down in front of her, but it wasn't enough. It never seemed to be enough. There were always more bodies in front of her.

There was a cluster of people near the doors, but they melted away as she approached. She could hear the sounds of her troops behind her—no non-verbal spells for her troops, no need to waste the energy in the chaos of open battle, and the air was ringing with Blasting Curses, Bombardment Hexes, Freezing spells, Petrification Charms, Stunning Spells, Fire spells, Knockback Jinxes, or Disarming Charms. Some of her troops were more bloody-minded than others.

"The Anti-Apparition Wards!"

Lina barely needed the warning—it was Bill Weasley, and his voice was drowned immediately by the sound of a hundred enemy Disapparating. Frustrated, Lina levelled her side-arm at the closest group of enemy figures, firing several shots, but it was too late. They were gone, and she hadn't even managed to clip any of them.

Shaking her head, she went up to the castle—the doors had been broken. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she would find inside, and picked her way through the splintered mess of the front doors.

The Entrance Hall was empty but for Dumbledore sitting at the foot of the Entrance Hall. Aldon was dashing down the stairs, the Longbottom boy and one of the younger Weasleys behind him, recognizable by his shock of red hair and similarity to Bill Weasley.

"They're gone," the Weasley boy panted, leaning over to catch his breath. "But the East Tower has taken serious damage, as has the gallery wall, and the professors are stabilizing it. It's at risk of collapsing and taking Ravenclaw Tower with it."

Dumbledore nodded tiredly, but Lina could see the Fade beginning already. No more than an hour, or maybe two, she guessed, before his soul dissipated into the air and only the husk was left behind. The spell he had cast had to have been powerful. He looked around, his eyes fixing on Lina. "Minerva?"

"The Anti-Apparition Wards are down," Lina replied, her words were curt as she tried to figure out what to do. Someone would need to handle Dumbledore when there was nothing left, and Stormwing traditional rites called for a close friend or ally. "I'll call for her."

The elderly wizard nodded again, shutting his eyes. "I need to talk about the continuation of the school with her. I imbued a new ward into the walls—something that should prevent anyone who intends any harm to the students from entering the school. A variant of your son's Truth-Speaker test, but it may only have worked on Voldemort and his army because it was what I had most in mind. I cannot tell."

Lina nodded, already turning away to pull the communication orb linking her to Cameron from her pocket. She couldn't be sure whether he'd made it to Hogwarts or not, but she hadn't seen him outside. "Cameron. Get me the Lady Ross—have her at Hogwarts as soon as possible."

There was a pause. "Will do."

She dropped the orb back in her pocket, then motioned for her foster son to come over, away from Dumbledore and the other students.

"We completed the evacuations about ten minutes ago," Aldon said unnecessarily, avoiding her eyes as he looked out the shattered doors. "We were about to draw back, pulling the older students out as well—"

He gasped, mostly because Lina had swatted him on the head. Christie would have no doubt done something horrifically sentimental such as hugging him, but Lina was not given to those shows of emotion, so instead she swatted him. "What made you think that coming to Hogwarts, in the middle of a battle, was a _good_ idea?" she hissed at him, keeping her voice down.

"Er—someone needed to be able to communicate with both the army and with the manors taking students," Aldon replied, one hand covering the ear where she had smacked him. "I have a communication orb with both you and with Francesca, so—"

"And you could think of _nothing_ else? Patronuses?"

"With the distance between Rosier Place and here, we considered Patronuses inadvisable," Aldon muttered. "Francesca cannot cast a Patronus in any case. I think I did well—"

"You are not a fighter," Lina snarled at him, still quiet. "Repeat after me, Aldon. You are not a fighter."

"I am not a fighter," he replied, a little stiff in exactly the way that he had when he was a child and she was forcing him to repeat sentences he did not truly believe and did not want to repeat.

"You are not a fighter, and I shall never see you on another battlefield unless it is at Rosier Place where you have four solid walls around you and either myself, Alastor, or any of the other soldiers around you."

"Lina, we are at war, and I think this is a little—" Aldon objected, then he very sensibly shut up when she held her hand up again. "I am not a fighter, and I will not go haring off onto a battlefield without serious and considered thought."

She scowled, but in the circumstances, it was good enough, and she pretended to ignore Aldon's under-the-breath murmur that he _had_ thought it through this time. "Tell me what happened."

Aldon shook his head. "After Flint appeared, Lord Dumbledore sent me upstairs to join the student forces. We were protected by the walls and height, and I was attempting to pick people off with my rifle, without much luck. The magical interference here is too strong—I may have caused a few non-vital wounds with a bit of magical stabilization, but overall it was not as helpful as I had hoped. Towards the end, when we had about three groups left to transport, I believe Voldemort managed to break the main doors. We heard the noise. I don't know anything further."

Lina nodded, a look over her shoulder showed that the Entrance Hall was beginning to fill as people came through the doors. Bill Weasley was already hugging his brother, while James and Sirius were pulling the doors apart, spelling any splinters to a corner pile where they could be cleaned later. More were looking around, uncertain as to what to do.

The Lady Ross hurried in, her eyes wide, but she spotted Dumbledore at the head of the room when he waved one weak hand in her direction. Her mouth twisted in worry and she strode over to him with fast, determined steps. There were a few words, before she hoisted Dumbledore's arm over her shoulders and helped him into a side room where they could talk privately.

Lina took a deep breath, setting the matter aside for the moment. Dumbledore might be dying, but there was work to be done and she had never been close to the man anyway. The only reason she was so shaken was that she had never witnessed someone break the seal on their life force and spend it—it was a very last resort measure, and Lina could count on her fingers the situations she might consider doing it herself.

In defense of Aldon. In defense of Christie. And that was about it.

"Let go upstairs, then," she said with forced calm. "I should hear from Flint."

The next few hours were spent connecting with the other commanders and unit captains, assessing damage against Hogwarts and counting casualties. Someone outside was already building a funeral pyre for the dead, and their own casualty numbers were lower than she could have hoped. They had arrived too late to suffer serious casualties, but Hogwarts had taken considerable physical damage. There was no way that the school would be operational for some time. Aldon passed a message to his girlfriend that he was fine, and Lina ordered that the remainder of the older students, those that didn't have anywhere else to go, be sent to Rosier Place. Aldon looked as if he might object, but she glared at him and pointed him through the Portkey Hub herself.

It was a few hours later that Minerva McGonagall came out of the side room, Severus Snape following. From the expressions on their faces, pale and determined, they had done what was necessary: listened to Dumbledore's last words, waited with him while he Faded, then taken care of what had been left. Too many people were hovering in the Entrance Hall still—the students might have been banished to Rosier Place, but there were professors, commanders, Clan Lairds and Ladies waiting and pretending like they had things to do.

"The Headmaster is dead," the Lady Ross said, her voice wavering slightly even if her expression was wooden. Lina heard gasps from around the room—it was too soon for tears, but she knew that those would come later. Whatever else might have been said, for many Dumbledore had long been a symbol of hope. His death, even in defence of his beloved school and even providing it with defences it had not had before, would be taken hard.

"Clan Ross, into whose lands this castle and these grounds traditionally fall, is taking full possession and control of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the circumstances of war," the Lady Ross continued, looking around the Hall. "The School will remain shut until after the traditional Easter holiday for cleanup and repairs, whereupon it will reopen for any students who require sanctuary and to finish the school year. The curriculum will be limited to core subjects and self-study only. Until the end of the war, the daily administration of the school will be handled by Professors Severus Snape, Filius Flitwick, and Pomona Sprout, with the assistance of Professor Rubeus Hagrid standing in as Head of Gryffindor House."

The Lady Ross paused, taking in a deep breath. When she began again, her voice was slower, more deliberate, and she took the time to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was founded on the principle of tolerance. _Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor; fair Ravenclaw, from glen. Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad; shrewd Slytherin, from fen. _A thousand years ago, one Founder from each of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland came together here on these grounds to build a school for the education of wizarding youth for the entirety of the British Isles. At the time, Wizarding Britain was not one nation. At that time, the children from four separate countries came to these grounds to study, and there were no barriers for nationality, blood-status, or even language.

"Today, we return to our roots. From now on, those of all nationalities and blood-statuses are welcome at Hogwarts once again. To ensure that these values of tolerance and equality remain, the Hogwarts Board of Governors, to be reconstituted after the war, will include a requirement for representation from each of Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland in equal proportions. It is my hope that, moving forward, Hogwarts might once again reclaim the status that it once enjoyed as being a haven free from discrimination. I ask that these words be spread throughout Britain, and that Dumbledore's loss today be a step towards a better future. Thank you."

They were good words, Lina thought critically, straightening from where she had been leaning against a stone wall. They were hopeful words. But even with Scotland won, it was a long way still to the end of the war.

XXX

_ANs: The Lina & Aldon relationship amuses me deeply because they ended up being far more alike than I had expected, which I suppose makes sense because she did (kind of?) raise him. She influenced him, anyway. A few extra notes: for those who don't know, the update schedule is posted on my profile and CC is anticipated to end by the end of the year, and I also cross-post to AO3 where if you check related works, you'll find a couple rev arc fics, special note to Elsin's _Unbecoming Pandora_ and FeatheryMinx's _they did no good_. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm for the beta, and to everyone who leaves me a comment or review of some kind-you all make it easier to keep writing, and I love hearing from you!_


	16. Chapter 16

Archie reached for one of the sandwiches at the end of the table—roast beef with some sort of fancy mustard that had spicy whole grains in it. He thought about it a second, looking up at the grim-faced warriors around the room, and grabbed two more sandwiches. And a mug of coffee. It was going to be a long, long meeting.

"Might as well start," Uncle James said, heaving a sigh. Dumbledore wasn't there, but strangely it felt like the Headmaster of Hogwarts was more present than he had ever been. "Who wants first?"

Awkward silence met his words, which wasn't something that had ever happened at these meetings. People were usually eager to jump in and provide their reports to the rest of the group, and for the most part Archie, or Lina, or someone needed to take charge and gently direct the meeting into something that looked like an agenda instead of pure chaos. Looking around, it seemed like a third of the room were trying to avoid attention, or they were already biting into sandwiches. A few, like Ron Weasley and Marcus Flint, were looking around with discomfort—it was their first meeting, so Archie thought he could understand the feeling. He caught Lina's eye, and the woman shook her head.

"Weasley," she said, looking over at Ron. "You start. Report on the action at Hogwarts, I think we all need the context and closure."

"Er—" Ron shifted in his seat. He was only a few chairs away from Archie, so Archie could see that his ears had gone pink. "I'm not really—"

"You're the only one here who was at Hogwarts throughout the attack, so you might as well," Lina snapped. "Report."

Ron hesitated, then he reached for his glass of water. "I woke up at around four-thirty that morning, and I was sitting in the window of my dorm when I saw the lights outside the front gates. They were bobbing, so I was worried—I went down to the common room to get a better view. In the common room, I could see that it wasn't just the front gates, the trees in the Forbidden Forest were moving strangely too. I called for one of the professors. Used the messenger bird spell that all prefects are taught."

"Why were you awake at four-thirty in the morning?" The Lord Prewett frowned at him, his words a little sharp. "Early, isn't it?"

"I don't sleep that well." Ron shrugged, his shoulders shifting awkwardly. "I fall asleep fast, but I wake up too early when I'm stressed."

"That's not relevant." Lina waved her hand, her eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. "Move on."

"Professor Flitwick came," Ron said quickly, picking up from where he had left off. "He took a look outside, did some spells, and then told me to wake everyone in my house and then in Slytherin and have all the student assemble in the Great Hall. I did that—I woke my sister to help with the Gryffindors, then when most of the boys were at least awake, I went down to the Slytherin common room to wake them up. They don't, er, have any prefects left in Slytherin, they all withdrew for the year. One of the girls was in the common room, and she helped me there."

Lina was making a motion with her hand for him to move on.

"I was halfway up the stairs from the dungeons when Voldemort's ultimatum came through—"

"Time?" Moody interrupted.

"Er—" Ron hesitated again. "Just past five in the morning? I'm not sure, I was hurrying to the Great Hall and didn't check."

"The man says he'll attack in an hour if you don't surrender, and you don't think it might be important to check the time?" Moody growled, glaring at Ron, whose ears had darkened to a deeper shade of red.

"He's not a soldier," Dad cut in, giving Moody a look of warning. "No one's blaming you for not checking the time, Ron. Just go on."

Ron nodded, taking a gulp of his water. "Yeah, so I went to the Great Hall and went to speak to Dumbledore. The other professors were already gone, shoring up the defences on the grounds and in the castle, and Neville was going to arrange the evacuation plans. Dumbledore asked me to take a group of upper-year volunteers to arrange a defence from the towers, and Cho to organize the students to prepare for evacuation. It took me a bit to get volunteers, and we were running upstairs when Neville returned. It must have been just after six, then, because Voldemort had started hitting the castle wards, with great big gobs of power."

"Who cares about finesse when you have that much power available to you?" Neal snorted, his green eyes narrowing.

Ron shifted his shoulders again—not a disagreement, just an acknowledgement. "Anyway, I'm not sure how much more I can tell you. Voldemort attacked, and I felt Dumbledore collapse the passageways under the school, then the group going through the Forbidden Forest got onto the grounds. Er, I think Voldemort split his group into three, one for the passageways, one for the Forest, and one at the gates. The group coming through the Forest split, half going to try to break the wards at the walls and half to harry us."

"Numbers?" Lina asked, her voice cutting in sharply.

"Maybe seventy in the Forbidden Forest group?" Ron grimaced. "I didn't count."

"We did find eighteen of Voldemort's casualties in the passageways under the school, too," Uncle James added, not unkindly. "Three routes of attack sound right. Go on, Ron."

"Yeah. Er, Flint's group showed up maybe a half-hour or hour after that. I wasn't really paying attention to the time, sorry. Rosier came up to join us too, with his rifle, and started trying to pick people off. With the distance to the towers, we were really only slowing them down with covering fire, we didn't manage to inflict many casualties. The rain kept them from targeting us, but it was hard to aim down, too." Ron paused, gathering his thoughts. "The front gates fell, just as the sky was getting a bit lighter, and Voldemort got on the grounds. The castle kept shaking—it felt like he was trying to collapse the building under us, but the castle held. A little while after that, we heard a massive boom, absolutely deafening, and the castle started glowing. White, with a tint of blue. The backup forces arrived not long after that, and Voldemort skedaddled."

"Skedaddled, did he?" Moody shook his head. "Need to work on your reporting, Weasley."

"He's not an enlisted soldier," Dad repeated with a glance at Moody, but he didn't press it. "What I don't understand is, what happened? What was that spell? Dumbledore was fine when we arrived—tired, it looked like, but fine. And then the next thing we know, Professor McGonagall is announcing his death."

There was another awkward pause—Archie, too, had wondered about that, but he hadn't wanted to ask. It had seemed insensitive in the aftermath of the Hogwarts battle and with Dumbledore's funeral soon after.

"He spent his life force casting a spell to block Voldemort from taking the castle," Moody replied gruffly, looking away. "Surprised he knew the spells."

Moody said it like he was stating the obvious, like it was something that they should all have understood, but from a cursory glance around the room, Archie could see that most of the others didn't know what he meant. A quick look at Hermione showed that her lips were pursed as she put together bits and pieces of their Healing training—Archie knew about the magical core, of course, and he knew that within the core was their life-force, but no one had ever suggested that it was possible to use their life-force as magic. It was supposed to be sealed off, untouchable by any mage.

"Cracking the seal on your own life-force and spending it gives you an enormous boost of power," Lina added, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. "But you pay for it with your soul. There are arguments that the life-force is synonymous with the soul, but the theory doesn't really matter. In practice, do it and you become a Soulless, just as if the Dementors had gotten to you. Depending on how much power the witch or wizard spent, it could be hours or days to Fade. Nothing anyone can do about it, but good for last wishes and the like."

"The Fade…" Hermione sounded thoughtful. "Like in children?"

"I don't know, nor do I care." Lina shook her head, obviously discomfited. "The spells to break the seal for life force magic are advanced magic. I couldn't tell you where Dumbledore learned it; as far as I know, only Stormwings are taught the skill, and in theory only."

"Did his spell work?" The Lady Longbottom was more pragmatic. "Did he succeed?"

There was another pause, as Lina considered the question. "He certainly imbued more protections into the castle than it had previously. We can't be sure of the extent of those protections, but when I advanced, I could see that Voldemort hadn't managed to gain entry to the castle even though the Entrance Hall doors were broken. The Hogwarts wards were bonded in the building itself—it made the castle harder to bombard, but when the doors cracked open, so did the Hogwarts wards."

"Hogwarts was supposed to have our strongest wards." Lord Prewett leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him with an expression of cool anger. "And yet it held for only a few hours, while Queenscove was held for weeks with no effect. Why is that? How could this have been prevented?"

"Uncle Fabian, Hogwarts was well-defended for a school," Ron spoke up, sounding more sure of himself than before and almost a little defensive. "But it wasn't a fortress. It had secret passages out to Hogsmeade and only one low-lying outer wall which left a gap for the Forbidden Forest. Queenscove is an actual fortress—it has outer and inner curtain walls, six ravelins and probably no more than two gates."

Neal glanced over at him, his green eyes suspicious. "And how would you know that, good sir?"

"Percy writes me." Ron looked away, embarrassed. "I was interested in how Queenscove held out during the siege."

"I must have a word with Percy about revealing our secrets, then. In the lists." Neal leaned back, and it was only through years of knowing him that Archie could see the wicked glint in his eye. It seemed out of place, before Archie remembered that for Neal, Dumbledore was no one at all. Unlike Archie, who had grown up in a family that looked up to Dumbledore, Dumbledore really was just another Lord to Neal, no different from the Potters or the Prewetts or any other family. Neal looked down the table from where he was sitting. "But Ron is right. Queenscove is a fortress. Our ravelins prevented Voldemort from blasting us with the same kind of power that he used at Hogwarts—the triangular shape splits his power, spreading it out over a larger area. And since outer walls look over the ravelins, we can fire over the ravelins from a defended position, just like the ravelins provide flank and rear support on a wall assault."

"Building in stronger defences for Hogwarts would have meant physical fortifications or earthworks—far more than we'd have been able to do without being noticed." Uncle James shook his head. "It's done, and Hogwarts is well behind the Scottish border. Next update? Aldon?"

"Voldemort's troops are badly demoralized," Aldon said, sounding somewhat clinical and detached. "He had an overall casualty rate of more than a third in Scotland, which includes people who are simply missing in action rather than confirmed killed in action. I suspect that many of those missing have simply run. This is having a spiralling effect on Voldemort himself: the more that he loses, the more he lashes out at his own soldiers, and as a result, the more demoralized they become. It was always bad, but before, some of the troops could dream of glory—now they do not."

"Do we have numbers?" Moody demanded. "He has to be recruiting, now."

Aldon's lips tilted into a half-smile with no humour in it. "Better. He's beginning a formal conscription. Before, he informally pressured people into enlisting, often with a threat to their families—beginning in about a week, according to my source in the Department of Justice, all wand-holders between the ages of eighteen and forty will be expected to appear before the Ministry of Magic, and to show evidence of why they should not be pressed into service. Failure to appear will, in itself, be a crime.

"The wizarding identification cards put into effect in January will be of service to Voldemort here, since anyone who has one and who hasn't managed to break the tracking spells on them will be easily located by Voldemort and his troops. My sense is that we might have some breathing room while he rebuilds, but the losses in Scotland have destabilized him further. He was never very stable, but is even less so now.

"Finally," Aldon said, and his smile spread across his face. "Voldemort has fired both of his Stormwings. His relationship with them was never very good, since they refused to bow to him or to his usual methods, and he was deeply disappointed that they did not bring him victory in Scotland."

"Voldemort barely listened to them in Scotland." Lina snorted, rolling her eyes. "Sending his army into the Highlands when we were using guerilla tactics was a beginner's mistake. Neither of his Stormwings would have ever recommended it."

"That conforms to what my sources have advised me," Aldon agreed. "Both Stormwings had learned, by the end of the Scottish campaign, to remain silent unless their specific guidance was requested, in which case Voldemort would hear them out and, half the time, dismiss it."

"Fool," Lina muttered.

"But a powerful fool," Moody countered in a growl. "I don't care that his forces are demoralized or that he's needs to recruit. Power does funny things to people's heads. The man is like a cornered snake, hissing and biting at everything he can. This is when he's going to use his power to try to punch his way out. Constant vigilance!"

"There are still the outstanding warrants on Grimmauld Place, and for the Shafiqs and Shacklebolts," Aldon added. "But I do not think that outstanding warrants will have much effect on him now. Previously, one of my own inside sources had been able to corral Voldemort and his army into obeying the constraints of the law in the name of legitimacy—she has since been blown, so we can no longer rely on that."

"Is she all right?" Archie piped up, looking over at Aldon in worry. He had read too many articles in the _Daily Prophet _about captured rebel collaborators and spies, and the worst part was that while he helped to tabulate all the information and pass it around, he never knew if Voldemort had actually captured any of their people. Aldon kept the identity of his informants on a strict need-to-know basis.

"She's fine," Aldon looked over at him with a quick smile. "She escaped before they could arrest her."

Archie nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. The _Daily Prophet_ was never very clear on what happened to caught spies and collaborators, but combined with their other information, Archie knew that it was _nothing good_. Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand, before leaning forward to join the conversation herself.

"Conscription is going to spark more refugee requests," she said. "We're already seeing a small, preliminary uptick. People within the Ministry are tipping off the people they care about before the formal announcement is made, so that they can run. Some of them are coming through us, but mostly not. Still, I do have good news—both Scotland and Ireland have sent independent delegations to the ICW, and they've put formal recognition of both states onto their May agenda. Scotland is also seeking official ICW military aid under the responsibility to protect doctrine, while Ireland is making a pitch that Voldemort's regime should be declared a threat to the stability of the Statute of Secrecy and calling for broad international involvement."

"Is that likely to succeed?" Uncle James asked, with a slight frown. "I mean, they've never helped before…"

"Some countries will probably provide military aid—not from every state, but MACUSA, Wizarding Germany and a few others are likely to put together a peacekeeping force for the Muggle cities," John said, his voice coming from the communication orb just a little too quiet to be easily heard. Aldon reached over and cast a _Sonorus_ charm on the orb.

"Thank god." Tonks sighed, dark circles under her eyes. "We had a quieter few months with the siege on Queenscove and the Scottish campaign, but the Met needs as much help as it can get. There are a bloody thousand Muggle murders unsolved in the past year and a bit, all of which have hints of magical involvement, and it's a goddamn nightmare. DCI Singh has been going on about how we can't possibly protect our Muggle neighbours, not with our numbers. There's only forty of us for all of Muggle Britain."

"Well, you can probably expect a force from the ICW in a few weeks, then," John said, and Archie could hear the smile in his voice. "But they won't be fighting in the war—they'll just be coming to protect No-Majs, really. Sovereignty rules."

"Sovereignty rules?" Tonks prompted.

"Every country is a sovereign nation and is therefore entitled to self-determination." Gerry's voice was the next to come out of the orb. "Foreign nations are not supposed to intercede in another nation's internal affairs. Not every country accepts the responsibility to protect doctrine, which allows a foreign state to intercede to protect civilians—rather, most don't, which is why the ICW relies so heavily on sanctions to express international disapproval. Even the countries that do, like MACUSA and Wizarding Germany, are leery about taking any actions that directly impact the end result of another nation's internal conflict. We're not sure how the ICW will take Wizarding Ireland's pitch. I expect that it'll lead to another declaration, and potentially sanctions on any countries aiding Voldemort."

"The sanctioning of countries aiding Wizarding Britain isn't unusual," John added, but he sounded skeptical. "But mostly declarations are tied to a specific incident, or they're vague and just refer to the _humanitarian crisis. _I think a lot of countries, MACUSA included, would be inclined to agree, but I'm not sure that the threat to the Statute is going to be convincing. It's too speculative, since we don't actually know Voldemort's position on the Statute of Secrecy. A better argument would be to draw the comparison between the Lower Alleys, Wales, and the attack on Hogwarts School—it shows a clear pattern of behaviour."

"Hermione, the BIA still has contacts in Wizarding Ireland, isn't that right?" Lina asked, turning to her.

"Yes, we do," Hermione confirmed.

"Would you suggest that platform to them? Riordan's new in politics, and so is her entire department of foreign affairs—I don't want there to be any possible aid for Voldemort, especially not from Wizarding Russia or the more sympathetic elements of Wizarding France," Lina replied flatly. "Durmstrang and Beauxbatons have preserved a vocal pureblood supremacist minority in both countries, and Russia is notoriously neutral on the blood equality issue. I don't want to worry about Voldemort managing to solicit aid from either of them."

"France isn't likely anyway," Gerry said, while Hermione nodded and made a note on her pad of paper. "Their minority has never gained anything like power since the Grindelwald Wars, and France itself is mostly integrated with the Muggle world. Even their fringe, pureblood supremacist element looks very different than that of Wizarding Britain."

"Still." Lina grimaced. "I would not like to be surprised."

"You never like surprises." Moody's smile made the scars on his face pull, and Archie realized he had never seen the man smile before. "No Stormwing does. Training beats it out of us. _Constant vigilance!_"

"You're mad," Lina retorted, then she turned to the rest of the table. "But he is right. It is possible that Voldemort will need time to collect his units and shore up his position, but he is also dangerously unstable and cornered. He also needs to be seen acting after the overwhelming loss of Scotland, so it's also possible that he'll strike at any of us. He knows who we are, he knows where he can find us. That said, we need to keep our own momentum rolling. We luckily had fewer casualties than we could have hoped for in Scotland—nine, to be exact—so we need to be planning our next strikes within Britain itself."

"What is the plan for units?" Neal looked over at Lina, his brows pinching together in worry. "Queenscove might be a fortress, but it still needs units to stand sentry on the walls and so on. I am not willing to give up any more units than I have, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we stripped ourselves down to the bare minimum of people we needed for the Scottish campaign."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. During the Scottish campaign, at least the safehouse leaders could be reasonably sure that Voldemort was preoccupied in the north—having him back on English soil had made everyone tense.

"With the war in England itself now, there's no reason why we need to pull units from anywhere except during specific strikes," Uncle James interceded, looking over at Neal. "We need places to house the units between strikes anyway. In some ways, fighting in England is easier because we have more safehouses and this is our home territory—we might not have the force of numbers of the Scots, but we're much better able to rotate our units through our safehouses and come to each other's aid."

"What are the Scots doing now, anyway?" The Lord Naxen asked, his mouth turned downwards in disapproval. "Now that they have their independence, with our help, what assistance are they planning on providing to us?"

"Troops for the northern border zones," Dad said, leaning forward on Archie's other side. "It's in their interest to enforce a border zone, so they are sending reinforcements to Queenscove, Goldenlake, and Naxen. We're going to call back the units you have presently stationed there for the south and for our next strikes."

"And where are these next strikes planned to be?" Lady Longbottom asked, sounding much less critical than Archie had learned to expect from her.

Lina, Moody, and Uncle James exchanged a look, and Uncle James shook his head. "These meetings are too large, and it's strictly need-to-know information. We'll be in contact if you need to know. For now, entrench your estate as much as possible to take an attack."

"Longbottom Manor does not have physical walls, or any sort of barriers," Lady Longbottom replied stiffly. "They were taken down in the seventeenth century, after the need for physical defences was past and the manor renovated. Would you please explain how those of us without medieval fortresses are supposed to _entrench?"_

"Strengthening your wards is always a good beginning." Uncle James reached for his mug.

"Then assume they'll break your wards." Moody laughed, without any humour at all. "That is where most Lords fail—they put too much faith in their wards and in their powers over their grounds. If you think about what might happen and build in defences for after your wards collapse, you'll be ahead of the game."

"Mostly, for inner-ground defences, you want to think about bleeding the enemy," Lina finished, looking grim. "Killing as many attackers as possible with spells set into the grounds, typically with a manual trigger. You want to ensure that whatever force comes through on the other side is much smaller, badly demoralized by the loss of their comrades-in-arms, and preferably wounded. I don't have time to review Longbottom Manor and make recommendations, but we have several Stormwing trainees with us on Service—we can send one to you for a review."

"I don't suppose—" Ron cut in, his face torn between interest and embarrassment. "Would I be able to tag along for one of those reviews?"

"Your mother—" the Lord Prewett objected, but Lina's voice was louder.

"I don't see why not," she said, waving a hand. "Especially if you organize a list of the safehouses who need help with entrenchment."

"Done," Ron replied a little too quickly, avoiding looking at his uncle. "Should I put you at the top of the list, Lady Longbottom?"

"Please."

"Is that offer also open to communities?" Harry asked, her bright green eyes sharp. "Leo and I are starting to hear from our community contacts, and the formal announcement of the conscriptions is only going to make it worse. There's open talk of resistance in Godric's Hollow. They aren't even trying to keep it secret anymore."

"The Lower Alleys are the same," Leo said, a flicker of empty grief on his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared, the only sign of the Fiendfyre attack of so many months ago.

"Communities are harder to defend." Lina shook her head. "No easily defined boundaries, and talk about resistance is still a long way from picking up a wand."

"But it's a good sign," Uncle James interrupted, shooting Lina a look. "It means they're likely to accept a new government instead of rising up themselves. I think we need to encourage these talks, see if they come to anything more than talks."

"I don't disagree," Lina said, though the wrinkle on her face said otherwise. "Mostly. But encouraging these talks will be dangerous. Communities are not like safehouses—we can't control who comes in or out. For every person that openly talks about resisting the Ministry, you should assume that there is one person that supports Voldemort and who will report to him the minute the opportunity is there, and three people standing in the wings to see how the wind blows."

"So, maybe we support them," Archie suggested, pushing his plate aside. Of his three sandwiches, only one was left. "We have a lot of spies and informants, don't we? We ask them to drop a word here and there, gauge the temperature of their communities, make a few suggestions here and there. Maybe they don't have to pick up their wands to resist, Lina—maybe we just want to get them to the point where they won't resist _us_. And we can make note of people that we think might be especially helpful."

"We've been doing that for months," Aldon said dryly. "I had no intentions of stopping."

"A symbol." Harry looked around, scooting forward in her chair with a recognizable glint in her eyes and a smile crossing her face. "What we need is a symbol. Not a bridge, which is too closely identified with us. Something that's very clearly anti-Voldemort, but not identified with us. People who are against him will copy the symbol, and it'll turn into a popular drive. When people against Voldemort see it, they'll feel like they are part of a larger movement; when Voldemort or his fanatics see it, it should demoralize them more. It'll make even a small movement look big."

"Are you suggesting _petty vandalism, _cuz?" Archie asked, breaking out into a grin.

"Some might call it petty vandalism, but I call it _a study in semiotics_," Harry retorted, turning her nose up in a fake expression of snootiness.

"What's the symbol?" Moody asked, considering. "As Harry said—it should not be associated with us."

There was a moment of silence—Archie exchanged a look with Harry, who was looking upwards in thought, then Aldon coughed.

"I might have one, but it is rather vulgar," he muttered. "It will work most effectively against Voldemort and his inner circle, and it does rely somewhat on whether the population believes that Voldemort was behind the attacks on Lord Riddle's Ministry before the coup. There are easier symbols, like the Ministry symbol in flames, or a broken lock, or a few broken links of chain—"

"Spit it out, boy," Moody growled.

Aldon cleared his throat. "Well, Voldemort had a symbol. He used it in the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, the skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. He called it the Dark Mark, and we haven't seen it since, likely because someone within Voldemort's organization dissuaded him from using it. But perverting the image somehow will have a greater effect on him than any other symbol."

"_Perverting _it, eh?" Moody's sole brown eye held a hint of humour, though his electric-blue eye still whipped around the room with wary caution. "And, you said, _vulgar_."

"Vulgar just means common, you know," Hermione added, with a slight frown. "Not _inappropriate_ or _obscene_. It comes from the Latin _vulgaris_, or the common people."

Aldon coughed again, ignoring both her and Moody. "Well, I rather thought that it would be fitting to _hang_ the damn skull with the snake. Voldemort will hate it. And the more he reacts to it publicly, we can hope that others will adopt it."

There was a pause, and then a round of snickers and laughs around the table.

"I like it," Harry declared, her smile small but genuine. "Leo and I will do it—we'll stick it first somewhere prominent in Diagon Alley, and I'll drop one somewhere in Godric's Hollow in a week, and we can throw them through the remaining Alleys and other wizarding communities too."

"Good." Lina yawned, and motioned for someone to pass her the plate of sandwiches. "Should we move onto safehouse reports?"

By the time the meeting finished, over three hours later, Archie was ready for a nap. Two mugs of coffee did nothing, and the to-do list for what information would need to go into _Bridge_, what information would have to stay out of _Bridge_, and what the information he needed to pass to different groups was swimming in his head. Hermione had returned with them back to Grimmauld Place but had quickly slipped out the back route and headed for a Muggle train back to Oxford. She needed to call her contacts in Ireland, she reminded him, and Muggle telephones were still the most reliable method of reaching them.

Archie had once asked her how she could still move about as easily as she did, without having the Ministry of Magic after her. She had shrugged, saying that she had never been very prominent in Wizarding Britain, and they had never really gotten a fix on her appearance, either.

Should they even be calling Wizarding Britain _Wizarding_ _Britain_ anymore? They were the British Isles, but without Ireland and Scotland, it was only really England and Wales. With the genocide in Wales, he wondered whether Wales could even really be included, though he supposed the land itself still fell under the Ministry of Magic. More accurately, he thought it was probably just Wizarding _England_, now.

"You look beat," Dad said, shaking his head. "Go have a lie-down. I can wake you for supper."

"I don't even think I need supper." Archie grimaced. "I'm pretty sure I ate about seven sandwiches just to stay awake. It's the carbs, they're weighing me down."

"There _were_ a lot of sandwiches." Dad grinned. "You weren't the only one. I'll make something light and leave it out in case you wake up and are hungry, how does that sound?"

"Thanks, Dad. You're the greatest, you know?" Archie fought another yawn.

"Only when you tell me so." Dad patted him on the shoulder. "Go on, have a nap."

"Yeah."

When he woke, it was dark, and Grimmauld Place was shuddering. He flailed for a moment, thinking he was dreaming, but then there was a pounding on his door.

"Archie!" he heard Dad hollering, and he startled upright.

The building shuddered again. An attack—the attack on Grimmauld Place that they been anticipating for months, he realized. They had run so many drills that Archie had started wondering if it would ever really come, since they were in the heart of London. He had thought there was just too much risk to the Statute of Secrecy.

He was wrong.

The building shuddered again, and he heard the sound of wood splitting. The outer fence or gate, maybe. He didn't know, and there was no time to think about it.

"I'm up!" he yelled, grabbing his wand and reaching for the backpack he had prepared months ago. It carried only the essentials: clothes, a Healing kit, the pouch of Battle Potions Harry had made for him. He knew the drill—he knew his orders.

He slammed into Dad, looking ghost-white in the hallway. "Do what you gotta do, Dad," he said, wrapping him in the tightest hug he could squeeze in a few seconds. "I'll see you later. Potter Place."

Dad nodded, his returning hug every bit as fierce as Archie's, before he tore away. "Go. Orders."

Archie nodded and ran downstairs. He could hear the shouting from their Auror unit, heading either outside into the gardens as the first line of defence, or from the third storey as covering fire. They would Apparate out after Dad dropped the Anti-Apparation wards and set the final trap, just as Dad would. Archie headed first for the kitchen, where he grabbed the list of runic shortcodes pinned close to the kitchen counter. One look around, quick, showed that the kitchen table was still stacked full of papers, and Archie couldn't tell if they were important or not.

The building shook again, and this time there was a horrendous crack, as if the ground itself was splitting. Archie didn't have time, so he whipped out his wand and set the kitchen table on fire.

Then he ran for the Portkey Hub and drew the runic shortcode to Rosier Place. He needed to report the loss of Grimmauld Place, just in case the bombs didn't destroy the Hub first.

XXX

Ed sat across from him, a small smile on his face as he regaled Aldon with yet another tale from his trip overseas. Francesca, sitting beside him with her hands moving gracefully over her traditional-style tea set, was bored—he could tell by the rhythmic way she handled the tea accessories and the slightly vacant look in her eyes that her thoughts were thousand miles away. He could understand the feeling. As much as he loved Ed, he had heard this particular story about the chimaeras in Africa at least twice before. Once, he knew that he would have listened to these stories over and over happily—now, he couldn't help but wonder if his time was better spent elsewhere.

He did need to entertain Ed, he reminded himself sharply. Ed had access to him, and while they rarely spoke of anything of importance, Ed was expected to carry reports of him back to Voldemort. Aldon knew from Vulture that Ed was to be searching for the secrets behind the ACD—with the exception of Francesca, Aldon was careful to keep the remainder of Blake & Associates out of sight during these meetings. Francesca had said that he had tried to pry her on her education and background when they were alone, but she had avoided being alone with him since. Francesca didn't like Edmund, but then, she didn't like people, as a rule.

He didn't want to entertain Ed today. Grimmauld Place had been lost two nights ago; Archie had shown up at Rosier Place near midnight, close to a panic, setting off the alarms. They had expected to lose Grimmauld Place, and by every measure the plan had been a complete success: Archie, Sirius, and the entire unit stationed at Grimmauld Place had escaped, all the valuable documents had been burned, and the townhouse had been blown sky-high. They had accounted for, at best guess, near twenty or twenty-five of Voldemort's followers, with only the loss of the manor building itself as the price.

It was, as Lina said, a perfect victory. They had lost no one, and their plans had gone off with no problems. Sirius had a very well-trained unit, and he had set the timer on the bombs himself just before Apparating. Better, they had inflicted serious casualties onto Voldemort's forces, perhaps the single biggest loss for Voldemort in any strike since Malfoy Manor. But Aldon couldn't help feeling like they had lost _something_, because they had one fewer safehouse than they had had before. The _London_ safehouse too, the easiest and most direct connection to their few international allies.

In his annoyance, it took him a minute to realize that Ed's story had taken an unorthodox turn. He was talking about his and Alice's journey across Central Asia, which they had decided to do the old-fashioned way by rail.

But they hadn't done that. From the Africa leg of their trip, they had taken an International Portkey directly to Sri Lanka. Even if Aldon hadn't known that, the reaction of his core would have tipped him off. It was thorny in his chest, reacting to the lie.

"Is that so?" Aldon asked, taking one of the tiny aroma cups of tea that Francesca offered to him and sniffing it. He kept his tone the same: bored but polite. "And how was the train? Surely it was a long journey, several days at least. Even the train from London to Hogwarts was a full day."

"More than two weeks," Ed confirmed. "And the sleep lodging was uncomfortable—we were near the back of the train, which rocked up and down. We did have an excellent view of the scenery, and once we caught the view of a magnificent garden that one of the Russian wizards had cultivated. I was shocked that he had been able to grow such an impressive garden so far north."

Aldon nodded slowly, thinking fast. He couldn't be entirely sure of Ed's meaning, but he thought that his friend was telling him his location in Malfoy Manor. After the return from the Scottish campaign, both Ed and Alice had been moved back to Malfoy Manor—the fear quotient of the Lestrange Manor was apparently deemed subpar with Bellatrix full-time in residence at the Malfoys, and Voldemort had wanted to keep an eye on them.

Ed was saying that he and Alice were being kept the back of the house, somewhere with a good view of the grounds—but also, for security, Aldon had to assume that they were on an upper storey. Otherwise they'd be able to clamber out a window and make a run for it. By the reference to the gardens, that meant somewhere with a view of the Malfoy gardens.

There had to be a hundred rooms that fit that description.

"What was in the garden?" Aldon asked, working to continue sounding bored. "If it was so impressive."

"It went by so quickly, I couldn't tell for certain," Ed lied. "We did catch a statue of a phoenix rising from the ashes, however, and another of a centaur. They were very well made."

Aldon didn't remember whether the Malfoy gardens had those statues, but they had to be another clue. He made a note of it for later—Malfoy could likely help him narrow down the rooms. He didn't think he could get much further on that point, not without more information on Malfoy Manor. "I see," he said instead, handing his aroma cup back to Francesca with a brief nod of approval. "How was the train otherwise? Crowded?"

"Very much so," Ed confirmed. "Easily a hundred people—more likely a hundred and fifty. In retrospect, we ought not have taken the train at all—Portkeys or even Apparation would have been better."

An expression of regret, tied into the numbers at Malfoy Manor. Even accurate, based on the guesses that Aldon had from his other spies and the constructed information from the shifter alliance surveillance team, and far higher than the numbers that Ed had given him before. Not that Aldon hadn't known that Ed was lying before, but this was different. This was Ed trying to tell him useful information under some other cover.

The question was, why? Voldemort knew that Ed would pass information to him—Ed's value was in the fact that he was allowed into Rosier Place at all. Voldemort also knew that Aldon was a Truth-Speaker, because all of the British Isles knew, so there had never been much point in Ed trying to conceal information from him. The fact that Ed was attempting some sort of subterfuge, and seemed to be dropping hints as to where they were being kept…

"Apparently there had been a reorganization of the train in the last year—all the sleeping cars were moved to the back, while the dining cart and other entertainments were moved to the front. Alice and I didn't spend much time outside of our sleeping quarters, though. Alice was too motion-sick to move." Ed paused. "We looked to get off the train near Irkutsk, but with the language barrier, it wasn't possible—we needed an interpreter but didn't have one."

"I see," Aldon nodded, taking the teacup that Francesca offered him and outwardly showing more interest in the tea than in his friend, even while he put the pieces together. Malfoy Manor had been reorganized. Most people were staying in the rear wings, and he and Alice were probably largely confined to their quarters. They wanted out, but they needed help. Alice might be injured. He took a sip of tea. "I would have helped, if I could."

His tone was nonchalant, his shoulders loose, and from an outside perspective he hoped that it sounded like a meaningless platitude. Ed gave no outward sign, moving on to talk about their journey through Wizarding China. There was little else that Ed could tell him that he didn't already know, even as he pried for more information and confirmation where he could. The reality was, after Voldemort began sending Ed to Rosier Place, Ed had even less access to relevant information than he had had previously.

He found Lina in the training yard after Ed left, in a one-on-one sparring match against Alex's second. Élodie was one of Lina's oldest friends, Aldon had learned, a part of her life from before being the supposed Lady Rosier. Accordingly, she had to be at least Lina's age, if not older, and yet the woman looked and moved like someone fifteen years younger. She had a gun, while Lina was using her wand and her handgun interchangeably.

Élodie was faster than his mother. Even if Lina had the benefit of magic, Aldon had long since learned that magic was something that one could work around with enough cleverness. Spells could be dodged, something that Alex and Neal had forced him to practice; unpleasant area-effect spells tolerated or ignored or circumvented entirely with more creativity. For the dhampir, gifted with both inhuman speed and strength, magic was only one more thing to consider.

Lina laid down a smokescreen too heavy for Élodie to get a clear shot, but the same spell meant that she couldn't aim either. Élodie dove into the grey cloud, and Aldon could hear the sound of thrashing movement—when the smoke cleared, Lina was on the ground, and Élodie had a knife pressed against the back of her neck.

"I yield," Lina muttered, her face in the dirt as Aldon's had been only that morning. Élodie stood up, letting Lina stand, and Aldon cleared his throat.

"Lina, can I have a word?" he asked, waving his hand to grab her attention. She caught sight of him and raised her hand in a motion to wait, then turned to Élodie. Most likely they were deconstructing their match—it was common after any bouts with the dhampir, though somewhat less so for the regular army. Aldon always seemed to go into those feedback discussions with absolutely nothing to say to his opponent, only to receive a dozen criticisms about the way he had moved, the way he had switched his weaponry, his distancing, or his other tactical decisions.

It was a minute before Lina came over, tucking her wand and firearm away. "Aldon."

Aldon looked back over the training yard—it was always busy, especially since Rosier Place had tripled its forces after the Scottish campaign. With the Scots taking care of the defence of their northernmost borders, Aldon had pulled two of the units formerly stationed at Queenscove, and everyone was required to do at least an hour of training a day. Most did more, and Aldon's gardens would never be the same.

He motioned his mother further away from the other people in the training yard, and lowered his voice. "It's Ed. Edmund."

"I do know who Edmund is," Lina replied dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "What about him?"

"He asked for help. He—" Aldon hesitated, looking around. No one was close enough to listen in, not that it would be very secret anyway, but he lowered his voice. "If I could break him and Alice out of Malfoy Manor, they could provide more fulsome information—"

Lina's eyebrow went up. "Didn't you say something not long ago about how Edmund rarely had useful information that you didn't have anyway? Something about how Voldemort keeps him from as much important information as he can?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Has Edmund promised anything if he is freed? Has he intimated having particular knowledge, or being able to provide us with a specific advantage in the war? What does he plan on doing if we do manage to help him escape?"

"He hasn't managed to say anything specific, but—" Aldon stopped, trying to find a rationale. He had a sinking feeling in his chest. "He does have an injury, but I'm sure he will find a way to help, even if it isn't directly in combat. He could assist in the Hebrides, at the dragon reservations, for example. I'm sure Weasley and Scamander would appreciate it."

Lina sighed heavily, looking away. "I knew this day would come," she muttered, before she looked square at Aldon. "We don't have the forces for this, Aldon. I'm sure you remember what happened the last time we tried to take Malfoy Manor—since then, from all the information we have, Voldemort has only entrenched further into the manor and increased his forces. He might not be the Lord, but it will still take everything we have and luck to take it."

"But with the foreign units arriving this week," Aldon tried. He had known what Lina would most likely say, but he had to ask. "We have more forces, and this doesn't need to be something to take the manor necessarily, just an extraction plan for Edmund and Alice—"

"Edmund could have left any time he wanted," Lina pointed out. "He willingly goes back, every single time."

Aldon scowled. Now that he was with Francesca, he understood far too well what pressure Ed was under. Were it him, he would reliably return, too. "He has little choice. Voldemort holds his wife."

Lina sighed again, with a slight shake of her head. "I know, it was only a justification that you could use to handle your feelings. I'm sorry, Aldon. We are getting foreign forces, but they are earmarked for defence of the Muggle cities: London, Manchester, Liverpool, Bristol, Cardiff, and so on. They're going to take control over Heathrow's Terminal M and the Portkey Hub and hold it—it's better than we expected. But they won't be helping us advance the war. I can't give you the people for even a targeted strike on Malfoy Manor, it's too dangerous. We need to focus on strategic locations, and we need to bleed the enemy more. We are in a very good position now though, so when you see Edmund next, you can suggest that maybe he only needs to lie low and hold out for another few months."

"How many months?" Aldon looked down at the ground to hide his expression of annoyance. He did understand, but he didn't like it—nor was he done asking. Lina and the army might refuse, but there was Harry and Leo and their independent strike team, too.

"Six, maybe." Lina stared at him beadily, lowering her voice in warning. "Don't do anything stupid, Aldon."

"I won't," Aldon said, shaking his head quickly. Lina narrowed her eyes.

"I mean it."

"As do I," Aldon replied, letting a frown of consternation cross his own face, as if he was offended that Lina had even asked again. "I won't do anything stupid, Lina. Excuse me, I need to go find my assistant."

She stared at him, suspicious, but she let it go. Admittedly, Aldon didn't give her much choice—he had already turned on his heel and disappeared back into the manor.

He found Malfoy in the room that he had secured as his office, not far from Aldon's study. It had been a reading room before, but Malfoy had only kept one of the bookcases. All the comfortable armchairs had been stripped out, replaced with a hard, wooden table and a set of four wooden chairs. Only the carpet had been kept, a plush emerald green that somehow seemed incongruous with the harshness of the remainder of the furnishings. Even the curtains had been removed, allowing in the cold, afternoon sunlight. Malfoy himself was frowning at a roll of parchment—they had had an influx of people offering to act as informants after the conscription announcements, and Malfoy was screening them.

"Would you happen to know where Harry and Leo are?" Aldon asked, leaning faux-casually in the doorway.

Malfoy looked up from his work. A pause, a slight twitch of his eyebrows. "What is it, Rosier? You're tense. And upset."

"We're at war, of course I'm tense and upset."

"Not in the usual way." Malfoy tilted his head, gesturing with a quill to one of the other chairs in the room. "It's different. More desperation than our situation right now really warrants. Harry and Leo are planning another mission in Diagon Alley—they're going to carve that snake-hanged skull into the statue of Riddle near the north end this time, I think. Is this urgent?"

Aldon grimaced, striding in to sit down in the offered chair. It was urgent, because Ed would never have asked for help otherwise, but at the same time, Ed hadn't indicated any specific urgency. He couldn't really answer. "Not as urgent as the symbols, I do not think. But I need to discuss a potential extraction plan with them, and given the location, it will need additional planning. And assistance from you, too."

"From me?" Malfoy straightened from his sheet of parchment, studying him with sharp blue eyes. "Where is it?"

"Malfoy Manor," Aldon replied grimly. Malfoy already knew about Edmund, and he even knew that Edmund had visited today, since he had had to remain out of sight. "Today, during my meeting with Edmund, he gave his location in Malfoy Manor and asked for help. They're in the back, one of the rooms with a view of the gardens, and of statues of a phoenix and a centaur. Almost certainly an upper floor. I spoke to Lina, but she cannot help. She said that striking at Malfoy Manor would still be too dangerous, so there wouldn't be any troop support."

"A room with a view of the gardens and both the centaur and phoenix statues? There are only a few rooms that fit that description—they're at the end of the east wing, in one of the corner rooms." Malfoy shook his head, the twist across his lips the only outward sign of his anger. "We should have struck at Malfoy Manor as soon as we were done in Scotland. We knew Voldemort was centralized there, and if we'd moved before they passed the conscription laws… We'll need to hit Malfoy Manor eventually."

"Lina said that we still need to make targeted, strategic strikes and bleed the enemy." Aldon leaned forward in his seat. "And that it might be another six months before we can liberate Malfoy Manor. Harry and Leo?"

"Pansy is in Malfoy Manor too, isn't she?" Malfoy scowled, but he was looking away, to Aldon's relief. "I'll reach out to Harry and Leo. Extracting three can't be any harder than extracting two. And Malfoy Manor is mine. There has to be something else that I, the presumptive Lord Malfoy, can do. I'll think on it and do a bit of research."

Aldon hesitated, his Sealing Curse closing around his throat as the information that Swallow was a spy almost came to his lips. That information was still strictly need-to-know information, but Aldon was creative enough to find a way to tell Malfoy if he really considered it important. At the same time, he thought that perhaps Swallow's role should be something that Malfoy found out from her directly. It wasn't as if Malfoy had believed any of the other information floating from Voldemort's camp about her, and perhaps Malfoy wouldn't believe him even if he did tell him.

Was there really any harm to _not_ telling Malfoy? Right now, they didn't even have a plan—perhaps Malfoy would find nothing, or Harry and Leo too would refuse, and it would all come to naught. And say that they weren't able to come to any sort of plan at all; in that case, it would be safer for Swallow if he said nothing at all. He could always change his mind later, when they had more of a plan.

But say that everything went ahead. Swallow had acted as a spy only though desperation, and her most recent correspondences were clear that she was out of Voldemort's favour. She hadn't said that she was in any particular danger, but if she needed to be extracted, Aldon did not want to stand in the way.

At the same time, Swallow had been one of his most highly ranked informants. Even out of favour, she had access to more information than nearly all his other informants, a situation that would only improve if she was able to regain Voldemort's favour. It was no exaggeration to say that Swallow's information could turn the tide of the war. Aldon had few enough spies in Voldemort's inner circle that he could not truly afford to lose her.

He could leave it Swallow. He doubted that Swallow would report any extraction attempt, and he could leave it to Swallow to decide whether she wished to be extracted or not. Even if she did decide to return with them, Aldon would still have Lestrange. Lestrange had been passing better information since their encounter outside Hogsmeade, and so while he could not really afford the loss of even one informant, it was a risk that he could take.

And if she did decide to stay, it wasn't as if whoever managed to get in would then stop and refuse to extract Ed and Alice. Chances were, it would be Harry and Leo, and he could not imagine it of them.

"Very well," he said, rising from his chair. "I—I appreciate it, Malfoy."

"It's nothing." Malfoy nodded, and a small, not unfriendly, smile flickered across his face.

XXX

Pandora stewed in a back corner of the former Malfoy formal dining room, now Voldemort's base of operations. Voldemort sat in the grand throne at the head of the room, silver encrusted with emeralds that could not have been comfortable, while beside him, in _Pandora's_ chair, sat Bellatrix Lestrange. Both of those chairs had been raised on dais, nearly a foot higher than the rest of the stripped-down room. By contrast, Pandora's chair, hard and wooden and an ache on her backside, was tucked almost out of sight. Few people were paying attention to her, a fact that made her furious and grateful in equal measure.

It had been almost two weeks since the disastrous attack on Hogwarts. Pandora had been right. She had been _right_, and it absolutely galled her that not only had Voldemort ordered her punished for having given the advice to retreat, but she had been punished again for daring to tell him that _she had told him so_. She had told him that striking at Hogwarts would be a bad idea, she had told him that a loss at Hogwarts would put him in a much weaker position moving forward, and the very end result showed that she had been _right_.

And Voldemort wouldn't acknowledge it. Instead, he was listening to Bellatrix Lestrange, that insane _bitch, _because she said what he wanted to hear. She talked about how they would win everything back, as if a hundred and fifty foreign witches and wizards weren't even now streaming into England and Wales in support of the resistance, as if they hadn't already effectively lost not just Scotland, but the north of England. And Voldemort _listened_ to her.

He was just another man. Someone else that she needed to control through sweet smiles and gentle suggestion, rather than someone who would listen to her because she was, in her own right, sharp and intelligent and _correct_. She was seething, and the worst part was, she had no choice but to see this through.

She had thrown her dice when she joined Voldemort's army. The future that awaited her if they lost the war—imprisonment, if not worse—was not something that she wanted to contemplate. Voldemort had to salvage a ceasefire, at the very least, and maintain his power if she wanted to avoid that future.

That, much to her displeasure, meant that she needed to linger in this very room, waiting and watching for a moment when she could win her way back into Voldemort's favour. It would happen—the people that Voldemort surrounded himself with were idiotic sycophants, without a single original idea among them. There would come a time when he needed a new idea, or a new suggestion, and there Pandora would be, ready to take her position back.

It didn't make the waiting any easier, especially because her body was still stiff and sore from the last punishment. Voldemort hadn't even allowed a Healer last time, so Pandora supposed that she was fortunate that Voldemort had ordered the younger Lestrange to do it instead of Bellatrix. Whatever one might say about Caelum Lestrange, he did nothing unnecessary, even if she was fairly certain he had nothing except Potions and hatred between his ears.

There was a flicker of movement in the doorway, only a few feet away from her. She turned her head, wincing slightly at the pain, to see Edmund Rookwood limping into the room. His face was grim, as it usually was during these report meetings, and in a brief, momentary flash, Pandora felt sorry for him.

Sorry for him? She shook herself. She had no reason to feel sorry for him. It was a very strange feeling and she didn't like it. She didn't even know Edmund Rookwood; she didn't recall meeting him but once in her life.

But sometimes, he glanced at her with a pleading expression on his face, as if there was something that she ought to know and didn't. Sometimes, someone would say something to her, and she would have no memory of the events to which they were referring. Sometimes, she even wondered if something was _wrong_ about her memories. There was something about them that seemed curious and constructed—she had many memories of her childhood, but sometime after she was seven or eight, they seemed to dry up, becoming fewer and farther between. She usually assumed that life had simply been very dull and not memorable, but it was very odd.

Voldemort had noticed Rookwood enter, and motioned him forwards. Pandora caught sight of the huge, black-stoned signet ring on his finger—clearly some family's heirloom, and she fought to keep her disgust from showing. For someone who had eliminated the nobility, Voldemort certainly tried to adopt as many markers of the status as possible.

"Rookwood," Voldemort drawled, his hand reaching over to clasp Bellatrix's. "What news, my friend?"

There was a brief second of silence before Rookwood's jaw unstuck. "Aldon's forces have swelled since the Scottish campaign. Before the campaign, I rarely counted more than a handful of soldiers at his manor—now, there are at least two dozen. Likely more, since Aldon does try to keep me from as much information as possible."

"What about his defences?" Voldemort stared at him, his dark blue eyes intense. There was no outward sign, but Pandora knew all too well that Voldemort was wielding his formidable Legilimency on Rookwood. Voldemort used Legilimency almost all the time, long past the time any other wizard would have tired. Pandora had not thrown her lot in with him for nothing.

"Still magical in nature. No walls." Rookwood fell silent.

"And the nature of those defences?"

"I would not know. I would guess that they are powerful—I can feel the strength of the magic when I cross the grounds. There are many spells." Rookwood's hands were locked behind his back, gripping each other tightly. Too tightly—they were white and shaking.

Normally, Pandora wouldn't have seen it. From the front, the way that his hands were locked behind his back was well-hidden, but there was something strange about it. Rookwood was always stiff when reporting, but Pandora studied his shaking hands. Was that normal?

Something about it bothered her. But she hadn't seen him report from behind before, so perhaps this was normal. She should forget about it. It was unimportant.

She frowned suddenly. That thought was _inconsistent. _Pandora was not one to dismiss observations as unimportant. Every observation was important, if not for now then for something at a later time. And it likely wouldn't have occurred to her if she hadn't just been considering how some of her memories seemed to be overly constructed. What if her memories were lying to her? What if she _couldn't_ trust her thoughts?

Rookwood's hands were important. She stared at them, concentrating. They shook like leaves while Rookwood reported, as he handed everything he knew or guessed about Aldon, about Aldon's wife, about the Rosier Place defences, about the resistance's next plans. More units in the south meant they had more reinforcements than the foreigners flooding in, and they had more money coming in from abroad as well. Any resistance government would be bought and paid for by foreigners.

"That is everything of importance, sir," Pandora heard Rookwood say. "Otherwise, I simply recounted more tales from my honeymoon—Aldon and his wife enjoy the stories."

Voldemort shook his head. "Do better next time, Rookwood," he said, waving a hand to dismiss him, and then Pandora saw it.

Rookwood's hands stilled, loosening behind his back. He was relieved. Why would Rookwood be relieved? Merely being dismissed would be one reason, but every other time Pandora had seen him leave he had been tensed until he left the room. And his shoulders were still stiff, so this was something else.

There was something else. She couldn't be entirely certain, but she was sure _enough_.

"Sir," she interrupted, standing. There was an uncommon sense of panic within her, which didn't fit. Pandora was never panicked. Pandora was focused, Pandora was determined, Pandora now had something gripped between her teeth and she knew it. "That is not everything. There is something else. I do not know what it is, but I strongly recommend re-examining him."

Voldemort's eyes were hard and considering as they rested on her, rifling through her mind. Pandora made her way forwards, ignoring Rookwood, who had frozen. The strange feeling of panic disappeared.

"Other than what he has advised, his memories include only tea with the Lord Rosier and his wife, and the said regaling of several very dull stories about his Grand Tour," Voldemort said slowly. "Are you suggesting that Rookwood is still able to _lie_ to me?"

Pandora dipped a polite, deferential curtsey, lowering her eyes coquettishly. "I am suggesting that Rookwood and Rosier are close enough that there may be double meanings in the tales they tell each other," she said, picking her words with care. "They have been best friends nearly their entire lives, and by now have met each other often enough that a code may have been established. I suggest you reconsider any conversation that seems especially meaningless, sir."

Rookwood had gone pale, which was more a sign of his guilt than anything else. Voldemort glared at him, and the slight twitch of his eyebrow a few seconds later was all that Pandora needed to know that her hunch had been right. Pandora was _always_ right.

"He seems to be trying to formulate some sort of escape plan," Voldemort murmured, leaning back in his throne. He glanced over at Pandora, a small smile crossing his lips. "What shall we do about that, Pandora? Since you identified it, it is only proper that you have a say."

"Of course," Pandora murmured, hiding her annoyance at his tone. She should have a say because she was brilliant, not because she was pretty, not because she happened to be saying something that he wanted to hear, not because of any other justification. "Sir, we should leave it. Rookwood has already set his plan in motion. A plea of this nature—Rosier will hardly be able to resist. He'll come for Rookwood, and Rosier is a greater prize. We set greater surveillance on the Rookwoods, and when Rosier comes, we capture him."

There was a long pause, as Voldemort studied her, and then he smiled.

"Wisely said, my dear," he murmured, before he raised his hand to her. "Come, sit with me. I have other things to discuss with you. Bella, find another chair."

Pandora smiled, and went.

Several layers beneath Pandora, Pansy shook. That had been close—too close. Pansy had pushed too hard, shoving her own thoughts at Pandora. But Pandora was nothing if not overconfident. As long as Pansy was careful moving forward, Pandora would forget about it, and forget about any hint that her memories were being hidden from herself.

She would have to send warning about Edmund. It was too bad about his plans, but Aldon was smart, and he wouldn't fall for it with her warning. And, based on Pandora's plan, she could try to push for better treatment for Edmund and Alice in the meantime.

This could be fixed. She was still in control.

She hoped.

XXX

"Mum, I really don't think—" Ron said, searching his mind for the right phrase. He was pretty sure there wasn't one—Mum had always been set in her ways, and Dad's passing had only made it worse. "Look, you know that this year is basically shot anyway, right? So many kids missed the year, all the sixth- and seventh-year core classes were amalgamated by Christmas."

"Half of my year is gone too," Ginny added beside him, but from her distant, resigned tone, Ron knew that she didn't think Mum would listen to her. She wasn't wrong—even Ron didn't really think Mum would listen to them.

"Then you'll both be ahead," Mum replied crabbily, moving around in the Prewett House kitchens and reaching for a container of flour. "Both of you are going back to Hogwarts when it opens, and that's final. Your schooling is important."

"The war is important, too, Mum," Ron said, trying to make himself sound firm. "My point is, I don't think going back to school is going to be of any benefit to us, either—no one's writing their NEWTs this year. Hell—"

"Language," Mum barked.

Ron winced. "No one even knows if the OWLs are happening this year. The Wizarding Examination Authority was run by the Ministry of Magic, and in the circumstances, no one knows whether they still exist. The professors were acting like they were, but in reality, I don't think it's a priority. Even Nev's taken a position as a messenger for the resistance, and someone taught him how to Apparate. I can be of more use _here—_"

"Doing _what_, exactly?" Mum snapped. "Following around the warmages like a lost puppy?"

Ron swallowed. It was true that he had spent most of the time off, nearly three weeks, coordinating defensive entrenchment reviews and following the Stormwings on trips to the various safehouses. It was mostly the trainees who went, but sometimes Moody would help too.

It was fascinating. Ron hadn't ever encountered anything that drew his attention as much as chess did, not until he began listening to the Stormwings talk. Chess had always been special for him—a game that he could lose himself in, which tested his wits against someone else in a way that other wizarding games didn't. Exploding Snap always had a sense of randomness, because the deck was primed to explode at some point, and while Quidditch was great, it didn't quite scratch that peculiar itch that chess always had for him. Nothing but chess did.

But that was until he started working with the Stormwings. Sure, he mostly just followed them around and took notes about what they said. The Longbottom Manor, the Stormwings thought, could benefit from spells that had a side effect of creating earthworks or other physical obstacles, because while they didn't have a large contingent of trained troops, they did have expansive grounds. By contrast, safehouses with smaller grounds needed to focus on spells that killed quickly and efficiently, since they didn't have large grounds to spread it out, and any spells that created physical obstacles would be more likely to cause bigger problems for them later. Every safehouse was different, but Ron felt like he had learned more in the last three weeks than he had in the past year. Possibly the last two, or even three years.

Mum had turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest, smudging flour onto her chest. "Do you know what those warmages are? They're the carrion of the battlefields. They prey on war, and on the good people who fight in them. The ones on our side aren't very different than the ones that fought for Voldemort—the former Lady Rosier even ran her own mercenary business where she earned thousands of Galleons killing people for money. Not because there was any greater principle, but for money. These are not people to admire, Ron."

"I—" Ron fell silent. He had no idea how to explain the feelings he had rushing through him. Maybe it wasn't a respectable profession, but everything about the war drew him. It was like chess—it engaged some part of him that never got fed otherwise. But it was more than chess, too. Maintaining the safehouses mattered in a way that chess didn't. Nobody doubted that a properly fortified safehouse would save lives.

"Mum, Ron has a point," Bill said, cutting in from the back. Ron turned around. His oldest brother was leaning against the back wall, fresh off a patrol shift with his long, red hair tied out of his face. "No one will really expect anyone to be finishing school right now, and Hogwarts is really just going to be a safe place where families can send their kids to get them out of the war zone. I don't think anyone will really be learning anything. And Ron is seventeen, Ginny sixteen. They're both old enough to enlist if they want."

"_William Weasley_." Mum turned to face him, placing her hands on her hips. "You are _not_ seriously suggesting that your youngest brother and only sister _enlist?"_

Bill shrugged. "Mum, people younger than them both are already involved, on both sides. It's their country, too, and I don't think that fighting it is going to do any good. By the expressions on their faces, their minds are made up."

"That's right," Ginny announced. "I'm going to enlist."

"Ginevra Weasley, you are _not_ enlisting in the war," Mum yelled, whipping around to face her. Ron had seen Mum and Ginny going at it many times in the past—Ginny was more of a tomboy than Mum had ever wanted in her only daughter, with no real interest in anything in the kitchen and too much interest in duelling and broomsticks besides, while Ginny found Mum suffocating. This, though, was different. Ginny's words had been calm, and her expression now was obstinate. Ginny would need to be tied up not to enlist.

Mum knew it, too, and her voice dropped to a stern whisper. "To your rooms, both of you. We aren't discussing this anymore. You're both returning to school on Sunday, and that's final."

"Or what?" Ginny challenged, her brown eyes sparking. "You'll throw us out of Prewett House? You'll clap us in irons, send us to Rosier's prison cells? I'm sixteen, Ron is seventeen. Dad is dead, and everyone else is involved in the war, and you just want us to _hide at Hogwarts_? What will you do to us if we don't?"

"That's _enough!_" Mum roared. "You'll both be back at school if I have to drag you both there _myself_, and if I have to tell the professors to hold you there!"

She turned around and headed into the pantry, dusting flour off her hands as she went in search for another ingredient, and the door closed shut behind her. Bill came forward to rest his hands on their shoulders. Ron exchanged a look with Ginny, who was gritting her teeth, a mulish look on her face.

"Go on," Bill murmured to them, nodding to the open door behind them. "I'll talk to Mum. She's just worried about you—you're the youngest, you're both still school age, so you're the only ones that she feels like she can really protect still."

"Are you going to talk her into letting us stay and enlist?" Ginny asked warily. "Or are you just going soothe her, tell her how _we_ feel and hope she changes her mind?"

Bill shrugged. "I thought I'd start with the feelings and see where it goes, Gin. I'll try, all right?"

"Trying isn't good enough," Ginny snapped. "I'm enlisting, Bill. I don't care what Mum says, and the only question is whether I'm going to have to sneak out to do it, or not."

She turned around and stormed out of the kitchens. Ron glanced at Bill, whose eyebrows were raised, and he sighed. "I'll keep an eye on her, but she's right. We can both do more good here than we will at Hogwarts, and we want to do it."

Bill made a small motion with his head in acknowledgement, neither agreement or otherwise, and from his grimace he knew what Ron was saying. Ron slapped him on the shoulder and disappeared out the hallway after Ginny.

Sometimes, he was surprised that his family had come from nobility. The Prewetts were even Book of Silver, or something like that, and as far as Ron understood it most noble families tried to marry their children to each other. Mum had fallen madly in love with Dad though, and even if the Weasleys weren't noble, they were prominent and Light. The Prewetts also weren't like the Potters, or the Blacks, or anything like the Malfoys or Rosiers—they were noble, but they weren't rich, they didn't have any house-elves, and their manor house was small. Their two units, Bill included, were camped in the yard, one in the front and the other in the back.

The halls were broad, painted in minimalist white. The floors were hardwood, swept clean, while the windows that opened every few feet along his left side were curtained in sky blue. Along his right side, the doors that opened into the reading room the sitting room, the family room, the dining room and the recreation room were walnut. Ginny wasn't in any of those rooms, so he shook his head, took the stairs up to the second floor by twos, and stopped by her bedroom door instead.

He rapped twice on her door. "Gin?"

"Go away, Ron."

"Look, Gin." Ron paused, leaning slightly on the door. "I get it. I'm on your side, here. D'you want to talk about it?"

"No. Just leave me alone."

Ron frowned.

He thought that, as far as his siblings went, he and Ginny were pretty close. They were the two youngest, and also the two that were born the closest together aside from the twins. They were also the only ones born after the twins, and the problem with the twins was that the twins always had each other, a special connection that they shared with no one else. Fred and George Weasley were a unit, and they always looked first to each other, and only after that did the rest of their siblings come into the picture. Percy, four years older than him, had seemed far too old and had been, well, _Percy, _while Charlie and Bill were almost a decade older than him. By the time Ron was old enough to remember them, they had both been away at Hogwarts for most of the year.

Most of the time, if Ron had wanted to play with anyone as a kid, it had been Ginny. He remembered chasing after his brothers, but Percy had always wanted to read, and the twins were a world unto themselves. It was him and Ginny, Ginny and him, right until he went to Hogwarts.

He knew Ginny. Right now, after a spat like that with Mum, Ginny should have been hugely upset. She should have been crying—she never liked anyone to see her cry and always hid it, but Ron always knew. Ron even knew that Ginny really only cried out of anger. When Ginny was sad, she withdrew into silence, but she didn't cry.

She wasn't crying now. He knew the sound of Ginny's voice when she was crying, and she hadn't been crying. Her voice was calm and contemplative, but there was something chilling about it. He didn't like it.

The whole interaction downstairs had been unlike her. She should have argued more—she should have backed him up the entire way, and the Ginny he knew would have been up in Mum's face, yelling at her about how they _were_ old enough, how they _were_ ready. How this was their world too, and they should be allowed to take some responsibility for what their world looked like at the end. And except for one brief outburst at the end, Ginny had been a silent shadow beside him.

Ginny and silent were never a good combination. A silent Ginny meant that she was plotting, or that something was seriously wrong.

She had told him to go away, but Ron had ignored those very words often enough in the past. If Ginny had been crying, she would have told him the exact same thing, and Ron would have thought nothing about barging in. But if Ginny was plotting something, then he wasn't likely to get anything out of her anyway—she would just feed him a bunch of bullshit, then find a way to get him to leave. It was better for him just to back off and wait, see what she had planned.

And, if the plan seemed like it might work, maybe he would join her. He had no intention of going back to Hogwarts—even if Mum dragged him back, he was seventeen and a legal adult, so he was just going to leave. It would even be easier to just enlist and leave from Hogwarts than from Prewett House. Between Mum and the professors, Ron would take the professors.

He hesitated, then pulled out his wand and muttered an alarm spell at her door. Nothing too loud, just something that would let him know if Ginny opened the door so he could check on her then. Or follow her. Whichever looked like it would work better. He'd play it by ear.

His room was next door, so he left his door open when he threw himself on his narrow bed. Moody had lent him some books on strategy and tactics, some wizarding and some Muggle, and Ron was consuming them in great gulps and swallows. There was a difference, he learned, between strategy and tactics—strategy was what he knew, more like chess, where he plotted out the overall course of the war, while tactics were the immediate solution to the immediate problem. What he had done in his armchair in the Gryffindor Common Room, thinking about the progress of the war, was strategy; what he had done the morning of the Hogwarts attack, directing the defence from the towers, had been tactics.

Moody thought he showed promise. His Defence Against the Dark Arts needed work, as did his Duelling, but he had a knack for strategy, and in a time of war Moody had said that could be important. That was one thing, and if anyone had asked him, Ron would have said that of course he just wanted to be of help, but…

But really, he just _liked_ it. He didn't know if he could describe how, or why—there was something about putting his mind against other people's, of trying to outsmart someone in a very real, very visceral kind of way. This wasn't like school, nor was it like any other kind of game. The stakes were higher, with real lives and real consequences, and it _thrilled_ him like nothing else.

And that wasn't something that he should feel. People were dying, so how could he feel this way? How could he _enjoy_ war? More than that, how could he tell Mum that he felt more alive in the last three weeks trailing the Stormwing trainees like a lost puppy and plotting traps that would kill dozens of people than he had possibly ever felt in his entire life? It was like he was a puzzle piece, and he had suddenly clicked into the right place.

He didn't want to think about that, so instead he cracked open _The Grindelwald Wars: A Military Analysis_ and started reading. At its maximum extent, Grindelwald had controlled Wizarding Germany, most of Wizarding Belgium and France, the entire north of Italy and half of the Eastern European states. The Allied wizarding powers had had to chip away at his base, forcing Grindelwald to spread his forces too thin by timing their strikes closely together, while draining him economically to make continued warfare unsustainable. It was fascinating, and he almost missed the sound of cursing from the room next door.

The cursing was followed by more cursing, then some banging and thuds. Ron set his book down upside down on his bed, mentally smacking himself in the face—of course Ginny wouldn't be going out her door. He had no idea what he had been thinking. The hallway was too long, with too many opportunities to be caught. The doors and Portkey Hub would be watched, and they were only on the second floor. He knocked on their adjoining wall, just to let Ginny know that he could hear her, but there was an almighty thump and Ron looked out his window to see her swinging one leg out of the window.

_Damn _it. He grabbed his wand and went to work on his own window. It was locked—of course the window was bloody locked—and it took him three spells and a Stormwing rune that Jukka had taught him to spring it open. By now, Ginny had swung both feet out the window, and Ron could see that she was carrying her broomstick out, too.

It would be fastest for her to ride it out, but she would be far too noticeable. The Prewett grounds weren't very big, and the two units they had made them positively crowded. There were always people on watch, and if Ginny wanted to slip by undetected, the best thing to would be to walk with confidence and act as if she was herself heading on patrol. In the darkness, no one would think twice at someone walking towards the edges of the grounds, especially if she walked a bit of a circle along the wards.

He wrestled the window open, just as Ginny made it out, hopped on her broomstick, and floated to the ground. "Gin!" he hissed.

She ignored him. He knew that she had heard him from the toss of her hair, but she didn't look at him or reply. He sighed—he didn't have a broom, but if he went out the hallway, he'd probably be caught himself and she would be gone by the time he got out the front doors.

It was only the second floor, he reminded himself harshly even as he swung his own legs out of the window. Thank the gods that he had the same build as Bill and Percy—lanky and tall, so his shoulders just cleared the width of the window. He lowered himself down gingerly, shut his eyes, and hoped no one was looking out the downstairs window as he steeled himself and let go of the windowsill.

A four-foot drop sounded a lot smaller in theory than it was in practice. His legs gave out on him as he fell, with a quiet _oof_, onto his behind.

It was dark, and Ron scrambled to his feet with a wince, looking for his sister. He could just see her slipping off towards the side—their bedrooms faced the front of the house, where tents marked the first of the units that had taken up station at Prewett House. He ignored them.

"Ginny!" he hissed again, but she still ignored him. "Gin!"

He sighed and hurried after her. Ginny had always been in better shape than him, but fortunately she wasn't hurrying—she was aiming more for quiet than speed, and even if she picked up her pace a little as they got further away from the house, he still caught up to her before she hit the wards. She couldn't really have been trying to avoid him. Probably she knew that Ron wouldn't really try to stop her—or, if he did, she was mean with a wand and Ron had been on the bad side of her Bat Bogey Hex a few too many times.

"What do you want, Ron?" she hissed back, as he caught her by the arm and spun her around. "I'm leaving—Mum's totally unreasonable, and I'm not like you. I only just turned sixteen, so if Mum drags me back to Hogwarts, I don't get to just waltz out the next day. I'm out of here."

"Ginny…" Ron hesitated, trying to figure out what to say. He had thought through following her, but less so what he was going to say to her if she did try to run. "Look, think about this. Where are you going to go?"

"Rosier Place." She looked away, scuffing the ground a bit with her foot. "Marcus Flint offered me a spot in his air unit after Hogwarts. I'm going to take him up on it. Rosier will put me in contact with him."

Ron winced. Mum would kill her. And him, if he let her go, but at the same time he understood. It wasn't like Hogwarts this year would hold anything for either of them. Ginny might not have been failing her classes like Ron was, but she wouldn't be alone in writing her OWLs next year, and he too wanted to stay and be involved in the war. "Take me with you."

"I can't, Ron." Ginny shook her head. "I would, but I can't—Rosier Place is in _Kent_, and it's going to be all-night flying. My broom can't handle two for that distance. You can go back to Hogwarts fine. You know the professors won't hold you, you're of age, and you can enlist directly from there."

"Then what the hell do you expect me to tell Mum in the morning?!" Ron threw up his hands. "She'll _kill_ me!"

"Just don't tell her anything," Ginny retorted. "Rosier will send a message over, or Flint, as soon as I've enlisted, and it'll be fine. Just keep your big fat mouth shut."

"As if Mum won't march over to Rosier Place or wherever Flint's units are stationed to drag you back," Ron moaned, running one hand through his hair.

"Mum is completely unreasonable about us, and you know it." Ginny tossed her hair over her shoulder angrily. "I'm her darling little girl, and you're her baby boy—she'll never let us go. We have to just reach out and take what we want, Ron. We can't look for her to _let_ us do what we want."

Ron shook his head, a little helpless—he didn't know what to say, and then he saw it.

It was tiny, a flicker in the air that he had only caught because it was dark and the night was still, and because of where he was standing. The air was _bulging_, forming a huge bubble in the air fifteen feet behind Ginny, the curve bending the scant moonlight shining onto the Prewett House grounds. He froze, his mouth open, and Ginny followed his gaze.

That wasn't the air, he realized, his thoughts moving sluggishly as if through mud. Those were the _wards_. The Prewett House wards were shifting, contorting inwards in a sickly, billowing way. A single narrow point protruded from the bulge, a wand or knife or some other sharp implement digging inwards.

The ward was about to pop.

"Shit_,_" Ginny whispered. "Oh, goddamn bloody _shit_."

XXX

_AN: Here we go, rollicking towards the conclusion! In a handful of chapters, anyway. meek says the first 2000 words of this are boring but I liked them and think it has important details in it so I kept it, my apologies :( I also feel bad if I upload less than 15K in a chapter for CC, so there's that. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm for the beta-read, and to everyone who reads and leaves me a review or comment and swings over to the discord to chat! _


	17. Chapter 17

"The wards!" Ron yelled, before he whipped back to look at the house. Over the last few weeks, he had learned a lot about noble manor houses. Lords of the manor were innately connected to their properties. Uncle Fabian should have felt someone messing about with his wards, and the house alarms should be going off soon. Or they should have gone off already.

"No _shit!_" Ginny shrieked, looking in both directions, and Ron grabbed her by the arm.

"You can't leave now," he snapped, his grip a vice. "You have no idea what's past the wards, but it's not _nothing!_ You're going to be flying out into a mess—I get that a distraction is a good time to slip off, but flying face-first into the middle of an army—"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it!" Ginny shook her head, yanking her arm away from him and swinging one leg over her broom. "Get on, we'll fly faster than we run."

"The alarms," Ron said, hopping on behind her and grabbing Ginny around the waist as she leaned forward, and they shot off towards the house.

"What about the alarms?"

Ron shook his head. How long did it take to set off the alarms? For Uncle Fabian, it shouldn't have been much more than a thought, no more than a minute or two, and yet the grounds were far too quiet as they streaked back. Not silent—silence would almost be a good thing, because it would show that something was different. It would show that someone was paying attention, that something had changed, but everything was the exact same as it had been only a few minutes ago.

Both camps still had guards, but it was between patrols, and the disruption at the wards had been at a spot that wasn't easily visible from either the front or the back camps. That was very unlucky—the patrols ran the route of the grounds every forty-five minutes, and the attack on the wards must have just started after the last patrol passed. People were still awake, still talking to each other and even laughing, all of which just made Ron more nervous.

They shouldn't have been sitting and laughing. They should have noticed—someone should have noticed something, Uncle Fabian if no one else, and the alarms should have been going off. Even on a broom, he and Ginny had taken too long to get back, and it was too normal. It was far too normal, and a few of the unit members even called after them as Ginny flattened herself on the handle of her broom to urge it to go faster.

She pulled up so abruptly at the front doors that Ron fell off the broom, a hard, braking manoeuvre that Ron wouldn't have been surprised to see on a professional Quidditch pitch. She seemed completely at ease, jumping off her broom and slamming open the front doors.

They gave, both of the grand, walnut-brown doors swinging open, and Ron scrambled to his feet and ran after her.

Prewett House was smaller than most of the other manor houses, a fact that Ron was very grateful for when they found Uncle Fabian, Mum, and their cousin Dorian in the dining room having a nightcap.

Ginny didn't beat around the bush.

"We're being attacked," she said, ignoring the expressions on their faces. Mum was already starting to frown at the way they were dressed—less so Ron, but Ginny was obviously dressed for a journey. She had a thick sweater, and her broom was in her hand. Uncle Fabian looked more surprised than anything else, but their cousin Dorian was going pale. "Voldemort is messing about with the wards, they're going to break through."

"Now—" Uncle Fabian started, tilting his head. "I don't—"

"It's on the east side, in one of the blind spots," Ron interrupted, shaking his head. "We saw it—a bubble pushing the wards inwards. Someone is looking to break into the manor. We need to set off the alarms, someone needs to send for help—"

"Whoa," Uncle Fabian said, pitching his voice over Ron's. His face was creasing in worry, but he was slowing rising to his feet. "Calm down, Ron. I don't feel anything at all from the wards, but let me send someone out to take a look, all right?"

"How would the two of you have seen anything anyway?" Mum asked, glaring at the two of them. "The two of you had no business being out close to the wards."

"That doesn't matter," Ginny snapped, waving her hand. "We saw what we saw! The alarms need to go off _now_, we need to get ready _now!_"

"Are you sure you just didn't imagine something in the dark?" Dorian asked. He was smiling, and Ron thought it was supposed to be condescending, but his voice was too high-pitched, too nervous for the condescension to work. "The dark can trick your eyes."

Ginny turned on him, her eyes narrowed to slits, and Ron didn't even see her draw her wand. It was already in her hand, russet brown and raised in threat. "_You_."

"Ginny!" Their mother gasped, rising to her feet, her own wand suddenly in hand. Wands were probably a good idea, Ron thought belatedly, pulling his own out of his pocket—to protect Ginny, or to defend against Ginny or Mum, he didn't know.

"I bet it was _you_, wasn't it," Ginny spat, advancing on their cousin. Dorian stood up, his face milk-white, his hand floating towards his wand as well. Ron, who had seen Ginny in action, doubted that he'd reach his wand before Ginny hexed him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian said, but the shakiness of his voice and the sweat forming at his temples told a different story.

"Ginny, what is this about?" Mum demanded, but Ron looked at Uncle Fabian, whose mouth was already turning downwards in an expression of grim disappointment. That, more than anything, told Ron what was up, and his wand was pointed at Dorian too.

"You're one of Voldemort's spies—since the beginning, you were passing him information," Ginny hissed. "You brought something in to help him by-pass the wards, you told him the patrol schedule, _you did this!_"

"How could you say that?" Dorian replied, trying for an offended tone, but it wasn't working. He was sidling towards the door, an avenue that Ron cut off before he could think too much about it. "Why—why would I do that?"

"Hell if I know!" Ginny shrieked, her wand coming up to hex him. "All I know is, after Hogwarts, my orders were to watch _you_. And I don't know how you managed to slip off, or where I fucked up, but—"

The ground under them rumbled, an ominous premonition—and just enough time for Uncle Fabian to shake his head, hit his son with an _Incarcerous_ spell, and then the alarms blared. Ron gasped, his hands moving to cover his ears. The Wailing Charms were overwhelming, a wall of sound so loud it was physical.

"Get help," Uncle Fabian ordered, shooting Ron a glare that had him dropping his hands from his ears. Attacks happened in war, and attacks were loud, and Ron had to suck it up and deal. "I can't feel the wards, but that was one of the backup Monitoring Charms. We only have two units. Molly—"

That was about all Ron heard before there was another, enormous crack—it sounded like the ground was splitting, or maybe the walls were breaking, or he didn't know. His instinct was to drop to the ground, but Ginny grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the room before he could. She shoved him ahead of her up the stairs, but Ron needed no encouragement to run.

The Prewett House Portkey Hub was in the attic. There were huge differences between their Portkey Hub and most of the others—most of the Hubs had a carrying capacity of six, while the Prewett House Hub was capped at four. They also didn't have a complete list of the runic shortcodes, only a list of the codes for the houses to which they would evacuate if there was need. It had never been a priority because Uncle Fabian thought Apparation was more useful. He wasn't wrong, as long as Anti-Apparation Wards weren't in play, but now Ron wondered if there was more to it.

Prewett House was shaking underneath them, and Ron could hear shouting from outside as people were finally swinging into action. His hands were sweaty, though he barely noticed with how strongly he was gripping the bannister as he headed for the attic. He slammed into the door for the Portkey Hub, grabbing onto the silver ring and holding on for dear life as the building shook around him. Ginny was right behind him, kicking the door shut. She grabbed the humming rail, and reached to trace a rune that she had clearly memorized into a dark panel barely visible in the dim light.

"Where are we going?" Ron yelled, the pressure building in his ears as they waited, the seconds crawling by, for a response from the destination Hub. He hated travelling by Portkey, but without knowing how the Apparate, he didn't have much choice.

"Rosier Place." Ginny said grimly, not looking at him. The dark panel was flashing a circle, over and over again. Waiting.

"How did—" Ron hesitated, then he barrelled ahead. "How did you know about Dorian?"

Ginny rolled her eyes at him, impatient. "I was a spy for Rosier. After Dad—I couldn't just go back to Hogwarts. I enlisted as a spy. I was posted to Hogwarts first, then to Prewett House for counter-intelligence purposes. Dorian's been a Voldemort informant since the beginning of the war. Coward."

The spell took, jerking Ron behind the collar and yanking him into the aether. He landed heavily in a different room, only barely keeping his feet. Ginny, whom he had decided was probably part cat, was already at the doors to the rest of the manor.

The hallway was a familiar one for Ron, who had been in and out of Rosier Place over the past three weeks to meet the Stormwing trainees. Someone would be coming to meet them, but he was sure he would find someone in the formal dining room—it was always prepared with snacks, since they had people coming in and out and on guard at all hours. Ginny followed close behind him, looking around.

Rosier met them before they even made it onto the main floor.

"Weasley, Cardinal," he said, his golden eyes bright and alert. "It's late. What news from Prewett House?"

"Dorian rolled," Ginny spat out. "I watched him, I did! I didn't think he had gotten off the grounds, or passed any messages, but I don't know. I don't know how he did it, or if he met with anyone else—"

"Prewett House is under attack," Ron cut in, putting a hand on Ginny's shoulder. "No information on numbers. The wards were falling when we left, but we suspect the enemy had inside information. The location of the strike was out of the easy view of any of our sentries, and it was between patrols."

"I don't know how he could have gotten the patrol schedule out!" Ginny cried, running one hand through her red hair in frustration. "I was watching him!"

"The access in the wards could have been laid early, when Dorian had freer reign—and if that's the case, someone else could have been watching and figuring out the patrols." Aldon shook his head. "Lina is in her rooms—she's on-call tonight."

Rosier's strides were quick, leading Ron and Ginny through the common areas of his mansion and into the family quarters. Ron hesitated before he crossed into them, but Rosier hadn't said they should wait, so he followed. Rosier hammered on a light brown door in the first hallway. "Lina!"

It was only a second before the Stormwing appeared, looking sharp for all that she was already in what appeared to be sleeping clothes. Not robes—something that the other Stormwings called a sweatshirt, and thin, cotton pants. She took one look at Ron and Ginny, and her eyes narrowed.

"How bad is it?" was all she asked. "Numbers, methods. You know how to report, now."

"Unknown, likely ward-bypass by means of internal information," Ron recited quickly. "Probably passive assistance, Dorian seemed surprised as everyone else. The wards were falling when we Portkeyed for help."

"I'll mobilize. Aldon, get Abernathy and Donaldson ready for action—I'll contact James for further assistance. If I recall correctly, there's not much room to move on Prewett grounds, but I'll aim for four units." She tilted her head. "Go on, get moving."

"Flint—" Ginny tried. She still had her broom in hand—she had never left it behind. "If I can get to Captain Flint—"

"Flint's air unit is stationed at the Shafiqs," Lina replied brusquely, already shutting the door. "Send him a Patronus and have him join us when he can."

Rosier Place and Potter Place mobilized fast—it was barely fifteen minutes before two units of troops were lined up and ready to move, Lina at their head. No one second-guessed him when he asked to join one of the units returning to Prewett House. He was seventeen, and the only comment made was that it was a good idea, and he'd be able to guide their troops past any remaining defences and into the manor. The fact that the sum total of his training had been, first, Malfoy's Duelling Club followed by the Hogwarts attack had simply never come up.

"Listen up," she said, and Ron shifted anxiously on his feet. Ginny had disappeared—Flint had responded quickly, and he was mobilizing his air units, so off Ginny had gone to join him. "I'll keep it quick. Prewett House is under attack, unknown numbers. Prewett House has two units for defence, and Lord Fabian Prewett has a good head on his shoulders. Lord Potter will have another two units joining us, from Potter Place, and Captain Flint is bringing aerial support. We're going to flatten them between us and the manor, and if _any_ of you see Dorian Prewett, capture him. Eyes up, we're moving out, and I'll see everyone on the other side!"

There was an series of salutes, and Ron grabbed onto Abernathy, who had been given the task of taking him back to Prewett House by Side-Along Apparation. The squeezing sensation, as if he was being squished through a tiny tube, was terrible, but at least he didn't hit the ground as hard as he did with a Portkey.

The grounds ahead of them were already in chaos. Ron couldn't see anything clearly—it was all movement, flashes of light, and yelling. Abernathy looked at him, expectant, and Ron shook his head. The grounds near Prewett House were flat, almost open, and it was easy to see that the wards had fallen.

"Prewett House never had much by way of internal defences—not enough space, too much risk of our own units inadvertently setting them off," Ron said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the distant shouts. "There was only one line of fire close to the wards themselves, but the enemy is well past it."

"From the bodies, I'd guess those spells went off already," Abernathy replied grimly. "We're going in. Stay close to us, Weasley."

Ron stuck close to Abernathy and his unit as they moved into the Prewett House grounds. His heart was beating quickly, his breath coming shorter as he followed behind the fighters. It wasn't his first action, which he supposed had been Hogwarts, but this was the first time that the action would be up close and personal. His palm on his wand was sweating.

They ran into one of Voldemort's units before Ron was ready. Abernathy was fast, Stunning two, and Ron could hear people casting _Impedimenta, Expelliarmus, _and _Reducto_ around him. A man spotted him and raised his wand, and before Ron could think too much about it he hit him with a _Bombarda_.

Battle was nothing like Duelling. It was nothing like the tower defence he had commanded at Hogwarts, where he and the other students had still been protected by the wards and stone walls of the castle. There were a thousand things happening around him, and Ron winced when someone threw a shield around him to deflect a spell he hadn't seen coming. He didn't try to thank his benefactor, however, but kept his eyes on his target, completing the hard, upwards flick of another _Confringo_. His target flew backwards, hitting the wall with a sickening crack. Ron turned, looking for a new opponent.

He moved as part of Abernathy's unit. There was always someone to his left, or to his right, and he made it a point to stick close to the centre. He didn't have the sort of training that the main army had, and as wily as Pansy Parkinson had been as a duelling opponent, she hadn't prepared him for an active battle. His eyes were everywhere, cataloguing immediate threats, non-immediate threats, and not-a-threats, and his wand was moving almost without his conscious thought. Everyone had their favourite battle spells; Ron, it turned out, liked _Confringo_.

He couldn't see what progress they had been making. Vaguely, he had the sense that their unit wasn't alone, that dozens of people were swirling around them and fighting on their side. From the air, people on brooms were swooping over them, laying down a covering fire. The enemy was falling back, and a spare moment where he could breathe, he could see that half the building had come down in a slew of rubble.

There was a figure climbing out over the rubble. Ron stiffened, recognizing the shape as it clambered over the rocks and started running for the wards. It was his cousin.

He hesitated, taking a few steps back to look at the battlefield as a whole. It was wild, but his quick look around showed that Lina and the resistance backup had everything well under control—the attackers were being squeezed between their forces and the remaining walls of Prewett House with its defenders. He was well behind the front line, and the covering fire was enough that no one would be likely to come after him.

Ginny said Dorian had been a spy, and Ron had no reason not to believe her. Uncle Fabian himself hadn't seemed surprised, only disappointed, when he cast the _Incarcerous_ on him. Dorian couldn't be allowed to get away, not when he might have led Voldemort's forces right into Prewett House.

He ran across the grounds, aiming not to follow Dorian, but to intercept his path—and not in front of him. Dorian wasn't much of a fighter, not from what Ron had seen in the past few weeks at Prewett House, but there was no need to get into a fight with him. The goal was to capture him and hold him for questioning, not fight with him.

"Stupefy, _Incarcerous!_" He yelled, stabbing his wand twice right as Dorian was in range. Two direct hits, and ropes spun out of his wand. Dorian fell on his face, and Ron pulled on his wand to tighten the ropes. Even if his cousin was Stunned, there was no sense in taking any risks. He looked around—the fighting was dying down, and he could hear the distant crack of Apparation as the attackers fled the scene. The Anti-Apparation wards had to have come down with the rest of the wards.

He couldn't leave Dorian unattended, even Stunned and restrained, but he wanted to see what was happening. No—he needed to see what was happening. Ginny would probably be fine since she was part of the aerial troops, but Uncle Fabian had been in Prewett House. Mum had been in Prewett House, and Ron knew that his mother would have leapt into the fighting. She would never have done anything else, not with Bill leading one of the two defending units.

"_Levicorpus_," he muttered, pointing at Dorian's prone form, then he headed back towards the half-collapsed rubble of Prewett House.

From up close, the damage to Prewett House was worse than it had initially appeared. About half the upper stories were gone, and it was a good thing that no one had tried to Portkey back into Prewett House. The Portkey Hub was gone. He could see other people picking over the rubble, and he sucked in his breath as he caught sight of his mother, leaning over a prone form.

It was Bill—Bill had been blasted backwards at some point into the wall, and blood was running from a nasty gash on the side of his head. He was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Ron fell to his knees, watching as Mum laid on the Healing spells. Mum had done an OWL in Healing, though she had never followed through with her full certification and Hogwarts didn't offer NEWTs in the subject.

"How is he?" Ron asked, barely noticing as Ginny landed beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know," Mum replied tightly, her wand moving in another spell. "I'm stabilizing him, but there are curses I don't recognize—we need a Healer."

"I'll get someone," Ginny replied instantly, looking around. "There's an on-call list—I think Healer Hurst is on-duty tonight. Let me speak to Captain Flint, I'll get her here."

"The Healers are already on their way, the full complement—Weasley isn't the only one injured." Lina had walked over, looking around with a critical eye at the damage, and she caught sight of Dorian Prewett, hanging awkwardly behind Ron's shoulder. "Good, you caught the spy. We drove Voldemort's army off, but the Lord Fabian Prewett is dead. Blood-Boiling Curse. We need to secure the manor. Who's in the line for succession, other than Dorian Prewett?"

Mum stood up, putting her wand away, and Ron didn't think he had ever seen her so pale. Her hands were shaky, but there was a steely glint in her blue eyes. "No one. But Dorian Prewett will never hold this manor. Not—not after this. Not after what he's done."

She stalked off into the rubble, searching for something. Ron started after her, but Lina held him back. It didn't seem like Mum was going very far anyway—she cast about in the rubble, looking for something, Banishing and Vanishing stone, wood, and other debris out of the way. People seemed to understand that she was not to be distracted, and stayed out of her way. Finally, she reached the floor of what had been the Prewett family room and kicked away the faded, worn rug that had covered the floor for the entirety of Ron's life, revealing a single block of plain, grey stone.

Her wand was already out, and Ron watched as she pulled her sleeve up and drew her wand over the pale skin. Blood dripped onto the stone below, and her words echoed, magically amplified, across the Prewett grounds.

"My name is Molly Iseult Prewett Weasley," she said, in a tone that Ron had never heard from his mother before. Mum yelled. Mum shouted. Mum ruled the Weasley family with a steady, fair, and even hand, but this cold, resolute tone was different. And yet, as stern as her words were, there was an undercurrent of anger and determination, and not even for an instant did Ron think that merely because his mother sounded different, that she was anything less than what she was at any other time. "By right of blood and might, I claim the Prewett title and these lands for me and for my own."

Ron blinked, feeling the power of the words soaking into the Prewett grounds around him. He exchanged a look with Ginny, who was frowning in thought.

"I'm not entirely sure what just happened," Ron said slowly. "But are we _noble_ now?"

XXX

Molly Prewett Weasley, Aldon decided, was a terrifying woman. An absolutely terrifying woman who was bent on justice for the loss of her family members, and who had decided that Dorian Prewett, being a spy, was the best target for her current rage. She had been to Rosier Place every day for the last week, demanding that Prewett be held accountable for his crimes—first making her case to Lina, then to the Lord Potter, Moody and Sirius, and then the problem had been shoved at Aldon since Prewett had been a known informant.

And it wasn't that Aldon _disagreed_ with the sentiment. Indeed, Prewett had much to answer for—while Aldon doubted that Prewett had _intended_ on setting up his own manor for one of Voldemort's attacks, the blunt fact was that he did, and in doing so had caused one of the biggest alliance losses since Wales. They had lost fifteen in the Prewett House attack, including Lord Fabian Prewett, and another seven, including Captain Weasley, were in the Healing ward set up at Queenscove and not expected to recover for weeks yet. That was more than two units out of action, and Prewett House heavily damaged and effectively useless as a safehouse. Prewett had to answer for it.

The Lady Prewett wanted him to summon Justice to stand in judgement of her nephew. There was only one problem with that: Aldon would rather run stark naked across his manor and beg to join the dhampiri Order as a permanent addition to Alex's unit, thereby signing up for a _lifetime_ of having his face shoved in the mud, than summon Justice for a second time.

He wouldn't have been able to describe the sensation of being possessed to anyone if he had tried. He remembered stepping on the circle in the courtroom, spilling his blood, and then he remembered the control of his body being yanked away from him. He remembered his mental self being shoved away, powerless, grappling for even a semblance of control, while Justice made him wear the dress and crown and other accoutrements that She preferred. He remembered Justice sorting through his memories, even the ones that he hadn't wanted to show anyone—he remembered the feeling of the incarnation working through his magic, drawing on something greater, and he remembered the pain of too much wild magic swimming in him.

The last time he had been possessed, his world had fallen apart around him. Aldon was sensible enough to know that the path to his world falling apart had likely started much earlier, that his blood-status would have come out in one way or another at some later time, and that the Incarnation had in fact made the transition easier by making him simply not care as it happened. But the fact remained that the last time he had been possessed, his world had fallen apart, and it had not been a pleasant experience.

While he would not say that he _liked _his current, war-torn world, he also had no interest in it falling apart. This time, there was Francesca to be thought of too. He did not want Francesca to see him during even the hour or so a day when he would be somewhat in control of his body and senses. He did not want her to see him as being anything other than perfectly solicitous, caring and in control—and he would not be that if he were possessed.

Fortunately for him, he had a ready-made excuse.

"I can only summon Justice from within the courthouse," Aldon said steadily, fixing an apologetic expression on his face as he looked around the table at the impromptu group that he had assembled to discuss the problem. Lina was there, looking both annoyed and exhausted, along with Robin to provide legal advice. Hermione Granger had come as well—much as Aldon would have preferred either Sirius or Archie, both the Blacks had said that Hermione was better placed to tell them about the likely international blowback. "I need the summoning circle—and I don't have the ability to recreate it. Not without free and ready access to the summoning circle in the courthouse at least, and perhaps not even then. Summoning Justice is _not_ an option for handling Dorian Prewett."

"We're in a bit of a legal grey zone anyway." Robin shook her head, reaching for one of the slices of lemon poppyseed loaf on the table. "We aren't a state, much as we try to argue that we are one. What would we charge him with? And by whose authority? We aren't the Ministry. We aren't a government, or we aren't one yet. Yes, we could charge him with the same laws that we had prior to Voldemort's takeover, but what keeps him from arguing that it's unjust because we aren't the Ministry and a legal government, other than our strength? There's only so far I can go on established caselaw, and then there are the issues with the changing situation. How long has Prewett been passing information? Arguably, Prewett can say that he was following the law by giving information to the Ministry, the legitimate government, or that he believed he was at the time he started doing it, and that he kept doing it out of duress."

Lina grimaced. She and the main army had moved onto planning their next strike, and the planning meetings went late into the night. The extra-large mug of black coffee in front of her had already been refilled once, and if it hadn't been for the fact that Aldon had _specifically_ asked her to be involved in this meeting, she would certainly have left it to him and gone to bed. "What about court-martial proceedings? Could we not set up court-martial proceedings? The new Lady Prewett is… rather keen to see something done."

Robin thought about it, picking off pieces of lemon poppyseed loaf and eating them piece by piece. "I don't know. It depends on how we characterize Prewett's status in the war. The problem with the major houses is that their _Lords_ might have enlisted and might be in a position where we could set up something like a court-martial, but their family members? Prewett himself never enlisted. He has a very good argument that he's been a civilian this entire time, which means we can't court-martial him."

"We did largely leave it to the Lords to keep their family members under control," Aldon said, inclining his head and reaching for a slice of the loaf himself. "Similarly, most of the Queenscoves have not enlisted, nor most of the Light faction. Not formally."

"But for the Queenscoves, this wouldn't really be a problem," Robin replied with a shrug. "Even if most of the Queenscoves haven't individually enlisted, by their very _actions_ they've declared themselves to be combatants in the war. They defend Queenscove, they fight with us against Voldemort, they act with colour of right as part of our army even if they answer directly to Lord Queenscove. Most of the other Houses are the same. Has Dorian Prewett ever participated in combat as part of our troops?"

Aldon looked over at Lina, who was shaking her head. "No. Gideon and Fabian were both in the Malfoy Manor attack, but Dorian was left behind, presumably to defend Prewett House. He did not volunteer for any other actions, was not involved in the main army training as some family members of other Light faction houses were and did not volunteer for any other actions. He did not participate in the Scottish campaign."

"Lady Prewett isn't going to let this go." Aldon sighed, rubbing his eyes. The Lady Prewett's demands became louder and more exhausting by day. He half-expected the woman to be camping in his study before long. "I _told_ Fabian Prewett to keep an eye on him after the counter-intelligence interviews."

"From an international perspective, I don't think the technical procedure really matters as long as we develop one," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "We'll want to be transparent and fair, but as long as that's met, then I don't think the rest matters so much."

"We do also want to set an example for the rest of the army," Lina added with a nod. "It must be public, and it has to deter anyone from doing the same, but neither do we want to be like Voldemort."

"I've said it before, but the laws of armed conflict don't technically apply to us as an internal conflict." Robin's voice was thoughtful. "There is nothing preventing us from setting up our own process, but I am going to warn you ahead of time that it's unlikely that we can really _convict_ Dorian Prewett of anything. If we treat it like a criminal case, then we have serious problems—we aren't the government, or at least we aren't one yet, there are issues with his _mens rea_ at the time of the offence, which we haven't really nailed down. If we try to treat it like a court-martial, it takes care of the authority and intent issues, but then he has a very good argument that he was never an enlisted soldier or part of our forces at all. The best thing I think I can do is have him attorn to our jurisdiction for a court-martial, that is make him _agree _that he was a part of our army, and then come to an agreed statement of facts and then a guilty plea."

Aldon frowned. "But if his case is so good, why would he plead guilty?"

Robin popped another piece of the poppyseed loaf in her mouth. "For protection. If he wasn't an enlisted soldier or part of our forces, then we have no reason to keep him in any of our safehouses. From what it sounds like, Molly Weasley isn't going to offer him sanctuary at Prewett House. We would be entirely entitled to turn him out and he's almost certainly more frightened of Voldemort than he is of us. We make a deal with him—he agrees he was a soldier, he pleads out on court-martial, we give him some sort of status that merits his protection, and he doesn't run the risk of getting captured and tortured for everything he knows by Voldemort."

"But what would we be promising him?" Aldon leaned back, rubbing his temples. He didn't like the sound of this, and he doubted that the Lady Prewett would be satisfied. She wanted _Justice_; putting Dorian Prewett in a position where he would be protected didn't seem like it would lead to the justice that she wanted. "I don't see how this is going to address the issue."

Robin smiled, a little sadly. "We get a guilty plea, which will be better closure than Lady Prewett might get otherwise, and without a full court proceeding where she'll have to relive everything again."

"What sort of protection deal are you thinking?" Lina raised her coffee mug to her lips. "I admit, I'd be more comfortable with him very far away. We don't know what Fabian might have told him."

"Send him north to the Clans. One of us can hold him pending the end of the war." Robin paused. "But for after the war, I think we'd have to promise a free release. Not that there won't be any other consequences—everyone will know what he's done, and he isn't likely to find a welcome in any of our Houses. He'll have to find his own way after that, and I doubt that will be easy."

"Fine," Lina said, with a quick nod. "In terms of proceeding, what are you thinking?"

Robin shrugged. "I don't know what court martial proceedings look like around the world, though I'm sure there are several models. What would you suggest?"

Lina gave Robin a pointed stare. "I was a _mercenary_, Clearwater. Even when I did contracts with the Order, I was not subject to the same rules."

"I think there are certain things that we're going to need for transparency and fairness," Hermione interceded, leaning forward. "It should probably be an open hearing, first, and whoever is hearing it, if not Justice herself—"

"It can't be Justice herself," Aldon interrupted quickly with a small cough. "No summoning circle."

Hermione shot him a look, a faint hint of amusement on her face. "As I was saying, if not Justice herself, it should be an independent decision-maker—preferably someone who doesn't have a relationship with the Prewetts at all. And if it doubles as a court martial process, it should be someone with a command—another safehouse Lord, or unit captains, or someone like that."

"That will be difficult to manage," Aldon replied, the tension going out of him as it became evident that Hermione was not seriously considering summoning Justice again. "As a noble family, there are few people who wouldn't be familiar with the Prewetts. Worse, most of the people within the alliance were Light faction, meaning most were either friendly with or allied with the Prewetts."

"We can do a panel," Robin suggested. "A panel of three, and as long as none of them are too familiar with the Prewetts, they also don't need to be utter strangers. It's harder to challenge on bias when there are three unanimous decision-makers, rather than one. Make me a list of unit captains and those with commands, and we'll draw names and set up a panel. Percy will have to recuse himself from representing Dorian, since it is his brother that was attacked and his uncle who died, but he'll refer Prewett to one of his defence friends and I can begin working on a plea agreement."

Aldon nodded. "What shall I do about the Lady Prewett, in the meantime?"

Robin grabbed another slice of lemon poppyseed loaf. "Tell her that we're setting up a court-martial proceeding, and any further inquiries should come to me."

Aldon breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "I will do that."

The morning of the court-martial proceeding was damp, but bright. They were holding it in front of Rosier Place—while Aldon would not be summoning Justice Incarnate for the proceeding, Robin had deemed it in their favour to have him there as a Truth-Speaker only. Veritaserum took at least a month to brew, and while Aldon could not say that he was keen to be pulled away from other work to sit through a court-martial proceeding, it was far better than having to summon Justice for a second time, and Robin had taken rather a lot of strain off him in the past two weeks. The Lady Prewett bothered Robin instead of him, and instead of Lina, the Lord Potter, Moody, or Sirius, which allowed them all to get on with their own duties.

Lady Prewett was already seated in the small array of chairs on the grounds, a mix of the Weasley children near her. Not Cardinal—Cardinal had requested a transfer to Flint's aerial unit, one that Aldon had granted, and they were preparing for a strike in a few days. The eldest Weasley, too, was still recovering in the Queenscove Healing ward, and the second-eldest was still in the Hebrides. The remainder, however, were standing with her in support. Aldon caught Percy's eye, and Percy acknowledged him with a brief nod.

The Weasleys were not alone—there was a myriad mix of people waiting to watch the proceedings, and Aldon had had to allow several transfers into Rosier Place which he hadn't really wanted to do. But transparency was important, and more than one house had sent a representative to watch the proceedings. Most of them were, at least, people who had been there previously, but Lina was putting all three of the Rosier Place units on alert anyway. Archie was there, a notebook and pen out, taking notes for _Bridge_.

The three panelists were already setting up at a long table—Kingsley Shacklebolt, Graeme Queenscove, and Gareth the Younger of Naxen, Aldon recognized. It was a good mix. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been an Auror before the war, and a well-respected one, and while he was considered noble, he was far enough from the succession that he had had next to no personal interaction with the Prewetts. Graeme Queenscove, of course, was Neal's eldest brother and had no previous relationship with any of the Wizarding British nobility. Gareth the Younger of Naxen, the panel chair, was the Heir Naxen and therefore better able to explain the intricacies of noble obligations to the other two, but Naxen was a northern holding and had no especially close relationship with the Prewetts in the south.

Aldon cautiously took a seat to one side of them, at the end of the long table. There were stacks of parchment, and someone had dug up a dictation quill to record the session. Two smaller tables sat in front of them, one of which had Robin behind them reviewing her notes, the other with Prewett and a witch that Aldon didn't recognize. Another of the defence lawyers, he would presume.

Robin had said that today wouldn't take long. Aldon hoped that she was right.

At precisely ten in the morning, Gareth the Younger of Naxen cleared his throat. "We all have things to do today, so why don't we begin? Miss Clearwater?"

Robin stood up at her table. "Mister Chair. As you already know, we have the matter of Dorian Prewett today. Mr. Prewett had been charged with aiding and abetting an enemy of the state, particularly, by the provision of information. We anticipate a guilty plea based on an agreed statement of facts. Mr. Prewett is represented by counsel, Ms. Audrey Smith, and in attendance for your assistance is the Lord Aldon Rosier acting as Truth-Speaker."

The woman at the other table, a short, curvy woman with brown hair that framed her round cheeks exactly, stood up. "For the record, it's Smith, first initial A. Prosecutor Clearwater is correct."

Naxen sighed and waved a hand. "Very well. Go to."

Dorian Prewett was a round, pale-faced man whose hair was beginning to go on the top of his head, though he didn't seem old enough for it. Aldon would have guessed him to be in his early to mid thirties, and certainly no older than his forties. His hair was closer to blond than it was to red, and Aldon saw very little resemblance between him and the Weasleys, though they were cousins. He was sniffling, and he didn't look behind him at the new Lady Prewett, who was glaring at the back of his robes as if she could set him on fire with her gaze alone. He didn't seem to notice, but his motion when he stood up was jerky, and the scroll of parchment shook in his hands as he unfurled it and began to read.

"My name is Dorian Jeremy Prewett," he began, and his voice was weak, barely audible. "I am the son of the former Lord Fabian Prewett and Lady Rosalind Rourke, both of whom are—are now deceased. I was the Heir Prewett. I am a Light wizard."

He sniffled again, and unfurled the parchment a little further. "In June of 1996, I became concerned with the actions of my father and my uncle, Gideon Prewett. They had discussed, and I had heard, that they were becoming involved with the group behind the rebel paper, _Bridge_, and that they had been invited to negotiations to form a resistance coalition against the Ministry of Magic. I was—I was not a part of these discussions and had my father or Uncle Gideon spoken to me, I would have contested them openly."

"He lies," Aldon identified, feeling the tremble in his core. "But it is a partial truth."

Prewett's eyes flickered to him, and the man swallowed. "That—that's—my father and Uncle Gideon spoke to me about their plans. I didn't agree, and I lost the ensuing arguments. I was upset, and even more so when my father informed me that they had joined with the resistance coalition. I wrote to the Ministry of Magic, and in July of 1996, I met with Auror Dale Turpin in Diagon Alley to report my concerns. I—I believed, at the time, that my father and uncle had joined with a dangerous organization and considered it my duty to report it to the Ministry of Magic. I hoped that, by doing so, that when it inevitably fell apart, I would be able to plead for clemency on behalf of my family. In return, Auror Turpin requested that I provide him and the Ministry with ongoing information from within the alliance. I agreed.

"From approximately July 1996 until November 1996, I provided information to the Ministry of Magic and, more specifically, to Auror Turpin about the alliance or resistance forces. The information that I passed included the names of people that I had seen and the known fortifications and maps for safehouses such as Potter Place, Rosier Place, and Prewett House. I trusted that that the Ministry of Magic would act rightly and legitimately in handling the resistance. However, at the end of November 1996, I began to worry that I had done the wrong thing."

Prewett paused, taking a deep breath, and his lawyer handed him a glass. He took few loud gulps of water, and then he continued. "I—I tried to get away from the Ministry of Magic and Auror Turpin, and I avoided providing more information to them as much as I could. I—I do not recall passing more information after November 1996—"

Aldon interrupted him with a hard laugh, his core thorny and irritated in his chest. "He lies. And this time, he knows he does. Try the truth, Prewett."

"I—I—" Prewett looked down, his face flushing in shame as the hand holding the parchment dropped. "I did not want to pass information, but by then—Auror Turpin had the information about Prewett House. He knew our fortifications, and Uncle Gideon and Uncle Arthur had died, and I couldn't—I couldn't tell Dad what I had done. But stronger counter-intelligence measures were put in place, so it was harder for me to get information out, and harder for me to learn new information. Nothing I passed on after that was of any importance, I am sure of it."

"It would be good if we knew exactly what you passed on after November 1996," Queenscove said mildly, though his green eyes were cool and considering. "How would you know if what you passed on was of any importance?"

Prewett swallowed. "I got out one message about the Scottish campaign, about five days before it began. That's all."

There was a pause, and Naxen looked at Aldon.

"He speaks truth," Aldon said, his tone begrudging. "Or, at least, he believes he does."

"I've passed on nothing since then. Nothing—I don't know how they got past the Prewett House wards. I did not help them on the night of the Prewett House attack. All I ever did was pass on information, I never—I never actually helped them."

Shacklebolt snorted, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I would call passing on information, especially about our people and our fortifications, part and parcel with _helping_."

"Is that everything?" Naxen asked, his brown eyes beady and focused. "Or have you more to say?"

At this, Prewett glanced back at what remained of his family members sitting behind the prosecution table. "I'd like to say that I'm—I'm very sorry that this happened. I had no idea that my decisions would lead to this. I didn't let them into Prewett House on the night of the attack, I swear it. I didn't mean for this to happen, and all I was trying to do was protect my family in the best way I knew how. I'm very sorry, and I regret my actions."

Aldon's lips twisted in disgust. The panellists looked at him, but he shook his head. "He speaks truth," he said. "Whether or not his belief that selling out his family to Voldemort would protect them was well-founded does not negate the fact that he speaks truth. For whatever reason, he believed that he was trying to protect his family, and he does regret his actions."

There was a pause, and papers rustled as Naxen shifted them on the table.

"Very well." Naxen coughed, and Aldon had the sense that regardless of how well he was handling the role that had been thrust on him, he was profoundly discomfited by it. "Miss Clearwater? Miss Smith?"

The defence lawyer motioned for Prewett to sit back down. "Mister Chair," she said, rising to her own feet. "The prosecution and I have come to an agreed recommendation on sentence. We recommend that Dorian Prewett be remanded into the custody of the Clans pending the end of the war. After the war, we recommend that a conviction for aiding and abetting an enemy of the state, particularly by the provision of information, be entered into his record, but that he be released with no further consequence. Our reasons for the recommendation are as follows.

"First, Mr. Prewett did not have a conception of the risk that he was undertaking when he began to act as an informant for the Ministry. In the summer of 1996, it was less clear to the public than it is now that Voldemort holds an illegal government, and it was more reasonable then than it is now to presume that Voldermort's government was legitimate. Once an informant, it was difficult for Mr. Prewett to leave, and Mr. Prewett acted, to the extent possible, to minimize his own effect once it became clearer that Voldemort's government was illegitimate.

"Second, we note that Mr. Prewett was never an enlisted soldier in the alliance forces. The Lord Fabian Prewett was a sworn part of this alliance, but Mr. Prewett never enlisted personally and took no actions on behalf of the alliance. In that sense, Mr. Prewett is little different from the myriad members of the public who hesitated to join either side, or who even aided Voldemort elsewhere—were it not for his unusual access to information and the serious consequences of his actions, which ought not to be downplayed, what he has done is little different than what has been or is being done by others across Wizarding England.

"Finally, Mr. Prewett profoundly regrets his actions. We note that he has personally lost his father and his home as a result of his actions, and that his title has been wrested from him. It is our shared opinion that the conviction and sentence sought are appropriate. Thank you."

She sat back down. Aldon chanced a look at Weasleys—most of their expressions were grim and resigned, and none of them were satisfied. Still, resignation was acceptance, which meant that Robin had successfully bargained the Lady Prewett into accepting the end result. Aldon owed Robin a very nice bottle of wine, he thought. He knew personally what a nightmare Molly Weasley had been to deal with on this issue.

"Do you agree, Miss Clearwater?" Naxen asked, his eyes flicking to her direction.

Robin half-rose at her table. "I do, Mister Chair."

Naxen sighed. "Then, I suppose the panel will adjourn to discuss our decision, which will come in writing. Thank you, all."

To no one's surprise, the panel's decision was released not even a day later. Despite the lies that Aldon had identified, the panel was still of the view that the proposed sentence was appropriate in the circumstances. Dorian Prewett was remanded to the Clans and would, much to Lady Prewett's somewhat-begrudging pleasure, spend the rest of the war in the secured and isolated Shetland Islands.

And Aldon could focus on his next plans: getting Ed and Alice out of Malfoy Manor.

"I spoke to Harry and Hurst, and to Blaise and Abbott," Malfoy said, keeping his voice down. There was no real need to—they were in Aldon's study, and he knew better than anyone that no one was listening in on them. But there was something furtive about their discussion anyway because they hadn't discussed the proposed extraction plan with Lina, Moody, or anyone else, and Aldon had the sense that if Lina knew, she would have stopped them.

Technically, they didn't need to discuss their extraction plans with the main army. Aldon directed espionage and sabotage, Harry and Leo ran their own missions, including extractions, as a small-scale strike team, and Abbott and the shifters managed their own surveillance operations. They didn't need to collaborate with the main army, and indeed it was often better that they didn't. Still, it was considered good practice to at least keep the leaders of the main army informed of their actions, and certainly Aldon had always at least informed Lina of any missions that might affect the main army. He expected Harry had done the same with her father in the past.

"And?" Aldon prompted. Malfoy had paused, examining him carefully.

"Their opinion is that an extraction mission is too dangerous." Malfoy replied, leaning forward across the desk. "There are too many people living at Malfoy Manor. Abbott's surveillance operation has estimated a hundred and sixteen people living full-time there, with another forty to fifty coming in and out regularly. The wards don't bar entry, but Abbott thinks there are strong Monitoring Charms on the perimeter. The shifters have issued orders to only allow shifters with innocuous forms, such as rabbits, squirrels, and so on anywhere near it, which upsets Blaise to no end. It's too crowded and too busy for an extraction plan to work, they said."

Aldon nodded, letting out a disappointed breath. He wasn't sure if he had expected any differently; Voldemort would not have put Edmund or Alice in a place where an extraction would have been easy. But he could have hoped for better news.

"However…" Malfoy drawled, a determined glint in his eye as he continued. "I am the presumptive Lord Malfoy. I had a look at the intricacies of noble manors. Even if I am under seventeen, I should be able to simply claim Malfoy Manor—the regency rules are a matter of formality, not of magic, and a fairly recent addition at that. As the presumptive Lord Malfoy, the manor should give me some advantage if I go in."

Aldon straightened, thinking. That was an idea, if a risky one. "There are limits, Malfoy. The night I felt the wards on Rosier Place fall—the manor could tell me very little until I had claimed it. I couldn't see everything as I can now, on a whim, nor could it warn me as easily as it does now."

"But you had some control, didn't you?" Malfoy pressed. "You were able to tell some things about the manor and the grounds."

Aldon hesitated. He remembered Apparating onto Rosier Place, remembered sending his power out and demanding to know if anyone was there. He remembered the grounds' uncertain response, only telling him that his father was not on the grounds and that his mother—well, that the woman he had called his mother his entire life had never been the Lady Rosier. But what he had known then was very little compared to what he had access to now, and he suspected it was even less than what Francesca had access to now. On the other hand, Neal had said that Queenscove, even unclaimed, had managed to draw him in and direct him to the primal keystone, suggesting that perhaps Book of Gold manors were different.

"Your manor may be different, but I was able to tell very little," Aldon said finally. "Though I admit that I didn't explore my abilities with the manor unclaimed. My priority was claiming Rosier Place."

"Yes, well," Malfoy went on after a brief pause, sounding a little deflated. "I think that I might be able to slip into the manor without being seen. The manor's native power might let me override the new wards that are up, and if I use a Disillusionment Charm, I might be able to sneak in and claim the manor."

"Even if you claim the manor, there will be up to a hundred and fifty people to be expelled." Aldon shook his head, skeptical. There were a lot of _mights _in Malfoy's plan. "That would be a difficult task, even if you were able to grapple control of your manor that quickly."

"I'm not expecting to be able to expel anyone from the manor," Malfoy corrected him. "I understand I probably won't have strong enough control to expel everyone that quickly. Claiming the manor would only be to give me an additional edge while I free Pansy and the Rookwoods, and it would give us an advantage later. My manor is Voldemort's stronghold—we'll need to strike at it sometime. Having the magical Lord Malfoy with you would be, tactically speaking, a huge advantage."

Aldon couldn't help but agree—the power of having the proper Lord Malfoy, with even some control over Malfoy Manor and its grounds, would be a blessing in any later attack. But the process for getting there seemed peppered with too many unknowns. Would Malfoy Manor allow Malfoy in without alerting Voldemort and his people? What about the many other people on the grounds? Would the primal keystone be left unguarded?

The location of the primal keystone was often only known to the Lord and his immediate family, so if the Malfoy primal stone was in an obscure location, there was no reason that it would be guarded. Aldon couldn't ask—it was rude to ask about another noble family's primal keystone. He would simply have to trust that Malfoy knew the probability of success better than he did when it came to accessing the primal keystone.

No one knew that Malfoy was still in Britain either, Aldon remembered suddenly. Or, more correctly, Aldon didn't think that the information that Malfoy was still in Britain would have gotten to Voldemort's ears. Aldon had told Ed that Malfoy had been sent abroad to his mother in Geneva, and during Ed's infrequent visits, Malfoy had stayed out of sight. Even the plan with Lestrange had kept Malfoy hidden behind a door, his voice altered. The few times that Malfoy had left Rosier Place, it had been to secure houses where Aldon was confident that there were no informants. Voldemort and his troops would not expect a Lord Malfoy to challenge their control over Malfoy Manor.

"Even if you succeed in claiming Malfoy Manor, it will be a challenge for you to leave the grounds," Aldon said slowly. "The magical backlash…"

Malfoy shrugged. "I can handle a headache."

"For months?" Aldon raised an eyebrow.

"If it means getting Pansy out, then yes." Malfoy's mouth was fixed in a stubborn tilt.

Aldon studied Malfoy for a minute, hesitating. No matter how Malfoy put it, it sounded risky. There were more than a hundred people at Malfoy Manor, and even if Malfoy managed to convince his manor to override Voldemort's wards and assist him throughout, it seemed improbable that he'd be able to claim his manor and free the Rookwoods and Swallow without being detected. Ed and Alice would be heavily guarded, Aldon expected, and Swallow, having now regained Voldemort's favour, would probably be close to him. Moreover, the fact that Lina had said it wasn't possible, and that even Harry and Leo had recommended against it…

But this was Ed. This was Ed, and with Ed came Alice.

Aldon wet his lips. "It'll be dangerous," he said, looking at Malfoy carefully. "It'll be very dangerous."

"I can handle dangerous."

Aldon let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. "Then we'll need to plan very carefully and make sure that you are as prepared as it is possible to be before you go."

XXX

It had been a long month since the Prewett House attack, Lina thought, striding into the Rosier Place formal dining hall. As far as any month at war could be considered quiet, they had even had a quiet month—Voldemort's army had been badly hit during the Scottish campaign, and someone had managed to convince the psychopath that his new conscripts needed some basic training before throwing them onto the battlefield. Voldemort had also exhausted the easy supply of people who had at least been in combat-adjacent fields, including Aurors, Improper Use of Magic Officers, and magical creature wranglers, and he was now left with an array of shopkeepers and paper-pushers.

It was good for the resistance, though Lina couldn't help but wonder how much of Wizarding Britain would be left after the war. She didn't hold out much hope for the male population between the ages of 18 and 40, at least.

The Heathrow Portkey Hub had been taken by a joint MACUSA and Wizarding Canadian force nearly five weeks ago with barely any fuss at all. Terminal M was located right within the Muggle aeroport, a fact that had come in very handy when a hundred American and Canadian Aurors had flown in on three well-timed Muggle flights and raided the Portkey Hub as their first action. The small Ministry force that had been left to guard the Portkey Hub had been outnumbered nearly five to one, and their commanding officers had simply surrendered. Then, they had begged to be taken prisoner and shipped out of Wizarding England as soon as possible.

Since the Prewett House attack at Easter, the resistance had taken two out of three remaining Wizarding English ports. Holy Island had gone first—it was the closest to their northern safehouses at Goldenlake, Naxen, and Queenscove, and was well within the resistance's zone of control. Since Holy Island was also close to Scotland, the Clan assistance had come in useful. With the English north effectively taken, the population of the Isle of Man, led by their own council, had declared their loyalty to the resistance.

Somehow, the younger Black and his girlfriend Granger had then convinced the Irish to take care of the defence of the Isle until the end of the war. Lina suspected they had agreed because Man was right in the strait between England and Ireland and would serve has a good launching point against Ireland if Voldemort attempted to retake the country another time. Irish ships now patrolled the strait, and Sirius carried word from the ICW that the newly independent Scotland and Ireland were loosely allied and pushing for greater aid for the resistance. Neither new country wanted Voldemort on their doorsteps.

The next port, taken only a few days ago, was at Weymouth in Dorset. Like Holy Island, Weymouth was arguably within the resistance's zone of control—it was close to Potter Place, Longbottom Manor, and Shafiq Mansion. However, being at the other end of England, it also lacked proximity to their other allies, and the fighting over the port had lasted nearly four days.

Alastor was already seated in the dining room, his magical eye spinning around wildly, though Lina had confidence that Aldon had secured Rosier Place to the extent possible and then some. While Aldon had never been good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, or Duelling, or anything that involved physical activity as opposed to sitting in a study and thinking, he made up for it with his careful attention to the wards and the other security spells set in the grounds. Aldon was sitting on the far side of Alastor, his eyes half-shut and arms crossed in thought.

Rounding out the meeting were James and Sirius, who were sitting side by side across from Alastor and Aldon. Lina didn't bother with a greeting as she slid into the remaining chair at the end of the table. "Casualty numbers?"

"Twenty-one—we lost one more last night, complications from a poison-spell interacting with a Blood Curse," Sirius said, the lines around his mouth creasing. Lina nodded in resignation—the first thing that any of them did after an action was calculate the casualty rates, but the numbers always changed a little in the following days. His son being a part of the Healing team, Sirius always had the most up to date numbers. "And another eight are out of commission for at least the next two to three weeks. But Bill Weasley is finally out of the Healing Ward and fit for combat."

"That's good." Lina paused, thinking for a moment. Weasley was a good captain, though most of his unit had been killed in the Prewett House action. "We'll have to find a place for him. Or pull together enough survivors from other units or new recruits for a new unit for him."

"In terms of ACD numbers, Francesca advises me that they've salvaged the parts from the ACDs of the fallen and they should be able to repurpose them for another unit," Aldon added, looking up and uncrossing his arms. "She would like to know which units to prioritize for testing and assignment."

"The next strike location will be the port at Southwold," Alastor said, with a shake of his head. "So, Shacklebolt Mansion. These ACDs—as useful as they are in combat, the fact that they need to be matched so closely—"

"They aren't matched any more closely than wands," Aldon interrupted sharply. "Rather, the fact that we can salvage parts and reuse them as efficiently as we do is a credit to the invention. I will ask Francesca to prioritize the units at Shacklebolt Mansion."

There was an awkward pause, then James cleared his throat. "I think it safe to say that we've secured most of the north of England, as well as much of the southern coast. I can also advise that Godric's Hollow is in as much open rebellion as I think we can expect from the communities—they've ripped down the Ministry checkpoint, and any time anyone tries to set it up again, it's gone by the next day. There were a few attacks as well, but Harry says that it's pro-resistance witches and wizards striking at pro-Ministry witches and wizards, and mostly about the checkpoint. Any thoughts on whether we should be interfering? Stopping the fights would demonstrate the resistance's claimed authority as the proper government."

"But it takes our units out of the safehouses." Lina grimaced. "I don't like it. It sets them up as easy targets for either the pro-Ministry community members, or for Voldemort himself at a time and a place where they'll be hard put to defend themselves."

"We are going to need to start interfering in these kinds of disputes eventually," Sirius said reasonably. "Auror work had its risks too. If we're holding territory, then I think we're already a state of some kind. Part of being a state is enforcing order, and that means patrols through the wizarding communities that we can call _ours_."

Alastor looked like he had a rotten smell put under his nose. "I agree with Lina—this is too risky. Auror work and a war are two different beasts, and we are still at war."

"I'd also add that the kind of patrol that I'd be willing to risk on that sort of control operation would be large enough that it would seem heavy-handed and threatening." Lina shook her head—James and Sirius did have a point, but they were still at war, and their units were better occupied elsewhere. "I'd recommend against it at this juncture. We don't have enough units that we can afford to risk them so needlessly. We've only taken the outskirts, and by my estimation, Voldemort's conscripted forces might actually be ready to act now."

James sighed. "You're probably right. Southwold Port, then?"

"It'll be harder to take the Weymouth," Lina replied grimly, pulling out a map and spreading it on the table. It was a map of most of England, but she stabbed her wand at the eastern shoreline to enlarge the wizarding port. "It has none of the advantages that Holy Island or Weymouth had—we have no close safehouses that might act as good launching point. In terms of other support, I do not expect the Clans to assist, it's too far south for them, and it's on the opposite shoreline from the Irish. There is a Muggle settlement a short way north of the wizarding port, but the most I expect we'll be able to do is have one or two of the ICW peacekeeping units sent there as a precautionary measure. They won't want to interfere in the strike itself."

"Terrain?" James asked, leaning forward to study the map. "Not as friendly as either Weymouth or Holy Island, I see."

"The port borders on a magical creature reserve—we might want to pull one of the creature specialists in on this." Sirius tapped one hand on the map, on top of the reserve in question. "If we can get Scamander or Weasley back down here, we should be able to advance through the reserve itself and push any of the port defenders into the sea…"

"That's one idea," Lina agreed, considering the map. The area around the Southwold Port really had nothing to recommend it other than its deep bay. Catching the defenders between the forces advancing from the shore and the sea would require manpower, and more of it than either Holy Island or Weymouth. "We'd need to surround the port from the land, but remember that it _is_ a port. Even if we set up Anti-Apparation wards, they'll be able to flee by boat, and there's the risk that, once notified, Voldemort will come swooping down on us. I don't think the difficulty with Southwold is _capturing_ the port. I think the challenge will be _holding_ it."

"We don't have the power to hold alarm spells the way that Voldemort has been able to do," Aldon said, considering the map. "But I do have a piece of good news for you. Parkinson Palace is across the magical creatures reserve from the port."

"And that is _good_ news?" Alastor's eyes were sharp. "From what I had heard, Lady Parkinson shut herself up mourning in her manor after Voldemort's coup. No one's seen or heard from her since."

"For very good reason," Aldon replied coolly. "Parkinson Palace was one of our primary refugee holding centres and transportation hubs. Less necessary now with the ICW peacekeepers holding the Muggle cities, but very much critical at the beginning of the war. The Lady Parkinson will permit you to use Parkinson Palace as a staging ground for the Southwold strike."

"That's one problem solved, then," Sirius said, with a quick, considering look at Aldon. Aldon's face was perfectly blank, revealing nothing. "We stage our units at Parkinson Palace, then we take positions, circle Southwold, and assault it."

"Voldemort will be expecting it, but given the size of the port, he can't keep a large number of his units there—Southwold has always been smaller than either Holy Island or Weymouth, there's just too many Muggles in Suffolk." James stared at the map, his face pensive. "Six units should overwhelm it, with aerial support."

"We'll need enough people to cast an Anti-Apparition Ward, the better to capture the defenders—it will delay Voldemort in his response." Lina looked over at James—James and Sirius knew the army better than she did, particularly which units had soldiers with unusual skills. "We can entrench if we buy ourselves time."

"At the scale you're looking it, it would most likely be a group cast." Aldon was leaning over the map, examining the terrain. Even without a Mastery, Aldon had somehow amassed a wide range of knowledge and practice with wards. "Four to six wizards could do it in concert."

"Four to six wizards familiar enough to ward construction to handle an Anti-Apparition Ward?" James was thinking. "We can put on Units 3, 4, 7, and 9—they all have someone who can do wards. Fill out the complement with 6 and 11, I think. They're seasoned and in good condition. Captain Flint can back us by air. They could come forward with us on the ground, then take to the air when the fighting starts. Will that be enough to buy us a delay?"

"Not as long as we would want," Alastor replied, with a slight shake of his head. "As Lina said, the challenge with Southwold isn't winning it, but keeping it. The Anti-Apparition Wards might let us take some prisoners, but the wizards at these ports will probably be able to take a boat out of range. We can't buy more than twelve hours, I wouldn't think. Then Voldemort will be on us, likely using almost the same tactic and shoving _us_ into the sea."

"Unless…" Aldon was smiling slightly. "We strike something that has more value to Voldemort at the same time. Southwold is strategically important for cutting off importation, but it doesn't have the same emotional impact as another target. Something like the Ministry of Magic, for instance?"

There was a lengthy pause.

"With six and the air units at Southwold, we could have another five at the Ministry of Magic without overextending ourselves." James was frowning. "But the Ministry is underground, and it's a warren—five units won't be enough. With the limited exits, it'll also be bloody. Not just Voldemort's main army, but the people who continue to work there, whether they want to or not."

Aldon shrugged slightly. "It's in London, and it's relatively isolated. The ICW peacekeepers patrol the city, and we know that Voldemort keeps at least one vampire coven there. We'll have support from the dhampir. As for the civilians, Lord Potter, they cast their dice when they chose to continue working at the Ministry. We have been at war for a year; every Ministry worker has had time to decide whether they wanted to continue taking the risk of working at the Ministry in a time of war or not. At this point, we must assume that if they continue to be by Voldemort's side, if they continue to work at the Ministry and continue to do his work, that they are on his side."

"That's harsh," Sirius said, raising an eyebrow. "People are frightened. Sometimes, the easiest thing to do when you're scared and the world is falling apart around you is to stick to your routine."

"It has been almost a year," Aldon repeated flatly. "This issue is not one that will simply disappear. The Ministry workers, more than anyone, should know the risks. If they haven't left by now, then they won't leave at all. We can't keep hoping that if things just become bad enough, the ones that are not _truly_ on his side will leave. The civilians at the Ministry may get caught in the crossfire. It is what it is. It shouldn't stop us from advancing the war."

Lina studied him closely—while he had shown signs of ruthlessness before, this was a rather different level than he had previously espoused. Aldon hadn't hesitated to kill in defence of Rosier Place, and he had once told her that he would execute prisoners himself if he needed to, but Lina somehow had difficulty putting this Aldon together with the boy that she had raised. That boy had been academic and rather overly attention-seeking, and she would never have guessed that he had anything like this brand of ruthlessness.

Circumstances had certainly changed him.

"Aldon is not wrong," she said, turning back to the rest of the table. "At some point, the Ministry of Magic will need to be taken. This is a good time for it—as Aldon says, the Ministry is a relatively isolated target within London. We are never going to reach a point where the people in the Ministry are only Voldemort's soldiers. Once taken, the Ministry of Magic will be Voldemort's priority—it is a far more high-value target."

"If we take it, it will also be far more defensible than Southwold," Alastor added, his low voice considering. "The ICW peacekeeping force will prevent Voldemort from re-taking it through the Muggle entrance, and we can bottleneck or collapse the Floo to cut off the Ministry entirely."

"How do _we_ get in, though?" James turned to Alastor, tilting his head. "If it's that well-guarded—we'll be picked off one by one."

"Not necessarily," Aldon corrected, his mouth tilted in a half-smile. "There is a key difference between our forces and Voldemort's, and it is that we have connections in both the Metropolitan Police and the ICW peacekeeping forces. The ICW may not be fighting for us, but their primary consideration right now is that the Statute of Secrecy is protected and that we don't draw Muggles into our conflict. We set it up like a Muggle police raid—we use Muggle tactics to breach the emergency exit of the Ministry. Muggle battering rams, Muggle grenades, Muggle bombs. Once the way is clear, we go in. Forewarned, they'll cooperate and keep Muggles out of the way, then they'll help keep Voldemort from doing the same."

"Once we're in, we can also just let people go if they run," Sirius said, though the expression on his face was still concerned. "The orders can be—anyone who is not resisting or running, we don't attack them. We let them go."

"We're still going to have to do a room-by-room clear-out." James shook his head, but it wasn't in disagreement. "We've done enough of that in the Alleys—we know what that's like."

"So, it's messy. War is messy." Moody grunted. "But it's a good plan, and I support it, though we'll need to work out further details on both the Southwold and Ministry of Magic strikes. In terms of the larger war, this forces Voldemort into a position where he has no choice but to try to strike at our high-value targets himself: Potter Place, Rosier Place, Queenscove and the other noble manors. The Ministry of Magic, with the foreign forces all over London, will be too hard, and his supporters would never be satisfied with a small port like Southwold. He'll need a major victory."

"And inviting him to hit our manors is a good thing?" James raised an eyebrow, and the faint hint of a smile on his face showed it to be more of a jibe than a serious question.

"It is. Because when he throws himself against _our_ manors, we have the chance to bleed him," Lina replied, ignoring the joke and straightening in her seat with a humourless smile. "And we need to bleed his army. We need to get their numbers down as much as possible before we can begin our final strikes against Voldemort's own strongholds—Lestrange Manor, Malfoy Manor, Diagon Alley, whatever else he still holds. After the Ministry of Magic, though, the only stronghold of any true value is Malfoy Manor. I suggest we destroy Lestrange Manor before we take Malfoy Manor, if only to deprive Voldemort of a retreat location, but Diagon Alley will probably just fall when Voldemort falls."

Aldon nodded in agreement. "The Guilds cannot afford to be anything but neutral, but they and the shopkeepers are increasingly frustrated with Voldemort's requisition orders, especially when they are running out of supplies for themselves. Gringotts has always been neutral, but the ongoing war is impacting their trade. Among the population, my informants suggest that we have broad public support. They have not forgotten the massacre of the Lower Alleys."

"Would it be strategic to take Diagon Alley before Malfoy Manor? Or even the Ministry of Magic?" Sirius asked, leaning back in thought. "It's also in London, we would deprive Voldemort of another source of supplies, and we have the Rogue of the Lower Alleys on our side—"

"But it's the largest wizarding community in Britain," Alastor said. "Between the size, the terrain, the access to Gringotts, the Guilds, and other shops—"

"We just can't hold it," Lina finished. "Too porous, too many people coming in and out, too many Floo access points. Voldemort would stop at nothing to take Diagon Alley back for the banks and the Guilds. It's not worth it, especially not if we think the community will fold for us after we take Voldemort out."

"Fine." James let out a long sigh, raising one hand to ruffle his hair. "Then, it's just Malfoy Manor, again…"

"I could have a plan for something that would assist with Malfoy Manor," Aldon said, almost off-hand. "But nothing is yet fixed in stone. I will advise if I succeed."

"Do you need any assistance?" Lina asked, looking Aldon over. His hawk-like eyes held a determined glint, but his mouth was small and tight with worry.

There was slight pause, one that made Lina's eyebrows twitch, before Aldon replied. "No, to both questions. It is an espionage and sabotage mission only, and fully within my area. Strictly need-to-know. Thank you for thinking of it."

That wasn't entirely like Aldon either. He wasn't normally so long-winded with his denials, nor did he thank people for offering their assistance. But his expression seemed consistent with Aldon when he was worried, which she knew he had been more and more as the war wore on, and she couldn't quite pin anything in particular that she would need to push him on.

Aldon had always told her about his planned missions, if only to keep her informed. Perhaps the fact that it was an espionage and sabotage mission was all that Aldon could tell them, and if it was in the early stages, then it would logically still be strictly need-to-know information.

"Very well," she said finally. "Let us know when you are able, Aldon. Or if you need any assistance."

"I will," Aldon replied, with a tense half-smile. "Or—you'll know."

XXX

John stepped off the plane at Heathrow Airport, a pack on his back. Britain didn't look like a nation at war, which wasn't surprising—he was on a No-Maj flight, and the war was supposed to be kept strictly to magical areas. It hadn't been, but through the miracle of the mages embedded in the Metropolitan Police Service, most of the No-Maj deaths had at least been covered up. More than a thousand of them in the last year, if he remembered right.

He scanned the crowds, the buzz of people's thoughts hammering him as they usually did in the No-Maj world. Complaints about a delayed flight, a man's uncharitable thoughts about his ex-wife, someone daydreaming about the first thing she would do as soon as she set foot back on American soil; he ignored those in search for his contact. John might have been the primary MACUSA liaison with the resistance, but it had still taken him weeks of arranging things for MACUSA to let him back into Wizarding England. Without Gerry, unfortunately, because the Germans had too few people on the ground for an in-person liaison to be necessary. Only John would be needed to liaise between the resistance and the ICW troops on the ground.

He spotted his contact as before the man saw him. Auror Allan Thurston was tall and rail-thin with a mustache thicker than the hair on his head. He was dressed in a severe, navy-blue No-Maj suit, and he was standing rigidly at attention—a military Auror, that meant, not one of the ones versed in policing. In America, the same term was used for both, though there were huge differences in training, command structure, and work.

John recognized him from his thoughts: specifically, that he sincerely hoped that John Kowalski, sixteen years old and a Kowalski, was better than his nepotism would suggest. John grinned.

"Auror Thurston," he said, striding up to the man and thrusting out his hand. "I am a lot better than my nepotism would suggest, thanks for the thought. I'm told you're my handler?"

Mental shields slammed into place behind the man's brown eyes. "John Kowalski?"

"The one and same." John smiled, with a hint of humour. He could understand the skepticism—he wasn't even yet seventeen, and he had ruthlessly used his family connections to secure his spot in the war. But he had also been involved in the war a lot longer than any of the new American units that had arrived, and unlike most of them, he also had very personal reasons to be involved. "I'm the alliance liaison. Mind debriefing me?"

Thurston nodded, and out of amusement, John pinged at his mental shields. A cursory dive into his mists told him that Thurston's Occlumency was strong enough—Aurors were trained at the skill, but most of them wouldn't be his equal. Auror Thurston was a good Occlumens, so while John though might be able to break it if he really wanted to try, it would probably hold up under most assaults. The twitch of Thurston's eyebrows told him that the man had noticed his foray, and that he was not impressed.

"I can give you a debrief without the need to resort to other measures," the man said stiffly, breaking eye contact and walking towards the exit to the airport. "We took Terminal M the day we arrived. Since then, we've divided up the forces—MACUSA has the most units on the ground, so we've taken a lead in the peacekeeping initiative. We're holding London and most of the southeast. The Canadians are on the ground in the smaller cities in Wales, while the European coalition, mostly German and Scandinavian, are holding Manchester and Liverpool."

"Any trouble?" John asked, keeping one eye alert on the area around him. Snatches of people's thoughts came in and out of his head, most of them easily ignored. "Reaction from the Ministry?"

"None. They know we're here—the Met reports that suspicious Muggle deaths are down since we arrived. No communications from the Ministry, and no attack on us, but our presence itself is having a chilling effect." Thurston paused. "I think we outnumber them."

"That's not it," John replied absently, hitching his bag higher on his shoulders as he looked around the crowded No-Maj airport with a wary eye. "They were decimated in Scotland, so they needed time to train new troops. They were trying to pick easier targets—they went after one of the alliance safehouses not long ago. Otherwise, the alliance has also been chewing them up in a couple other offensives over the ports. What time is the meeting, again? Do I have time for a snack?"

"No. It's in twenty minutes," Thurston said, leading him towards what looked like a blank wall. John reached out a hand—for a second, it was solid, and then the wall gave under him like it was made of foam. "Do you know what it's about?"

"An offensive on a magical location in London." John leaned back against the illusion wall and sank through it. Thurston followed with barely a pause. "They want us and the Met to help clear No-Majs out of the area and to put together a cover story when they take the location. Apparently, it's underground and heavily fortified, with vampire involvement. Possibly werewolves, too, for all we know. They want to discuss details, and pry us to see if we'll help further, I think."

Thurston shuddered, his face twisting in disgust at the mention of vampires and werewolves. "Fine. Will you be returning to London with the regular troops after the meeting? You didn't specify, so secure arrangements will need to be made—"

"No need." John grinned. "I'm the MACUSA liaison with the alliance, Thurston—if MACUSA has troops on the ground here, I'm best placed if I stay with the alliance, aren't I? I'll stay in one of their safehouses, so you and I will probably need to set up a communication system. Patronuses are prone to failing at the worst moments, but it can be a fallback until we figure something else out."

Thurston grimaced slightly. "We have mobile phones. Will they work?"

John took a moment to think about it—Monster would probably be able to shield it, but he didn't know if he'd be able to get a signal in a magical environment. "Mobile, probably not-I'll be out far enough that I doubt there will be a signal. Satellite might work though, I don't know. We can try a satellite phone, and if it doesn't work, I'll send you a Patronus. I'll need a supply of batteries for it, though."

"Very well." Thurston nodded. "I understand that you have the codes for the alliance strongholds?"

"I do," John acknowledged, looking around Terminal M for the first time. The Portkey Hub didn't even seem like a part of Britain. The dozen or so Aurors he could see patrolling the airport and Hub all wore the MACUSA uniform, dark blue robes cut in the American style above the knee with gold MACUSA pins on their collars, and the words he caught in the air were said with an American accent. On the other hand, the Heathrow Portkey Hub was a lot smaller and quieter than any Portkey Hub that John had ever seen before, with only about a dozen transport rooms. It was too quiet, too empty to be in America or anywhere else that John had ever seen, so he could only be in Wizarding Britain. "Any transits in or out of the Portkey Hub?"

"None." Thurston replied, with a shake of his head. "It's eerie. Heathrow is one of the major Portkey Hubs for this country, but there have been no transits at all since we've taken it over. The staff we captured said that normally, there were only a couple transits a day."

"Britain was small enough that most people used Floo and Apparition to get around," John said absently, shrugging and heading into the closest transportation room. "The Hubs were never a common mode of transportation here, they were mostly used for transit to other European countries. Most of the transits probably started moving through the Edinburgh and Dublin Hubs once the war started."

It took him a few minutes to find the inner panel to request a transit—Monster had said that every Portkey room was equipped with one, though at the big Hubs, there was an external operational surface as well. He traced the series of runes that Monster had given him, and waited. They were due at Potter Place, and Monster had said that Archie knew to expect them.

There was a yank behind his shoulder blades, and he and Thurston reappeared in a much smaller room, one that looked like a repurposed cellar. He barely had time for his eyes to adjust when the door flew open, and a shape threw itself at him in a bear hug.

"John!" Archie's voice was instantly recognizable. "I'm _so_ glad to see you—I was so excited when Chess said that you'd been transferred to the American troops in Britain, and I'm sorry we couldn't just meet at Grimmauld Place. We blew it up, you see? Oh, sorry, I think you might have left some comic books at my place—"

"Monster told me." John grinned, pulling away to look Archie over. Archie's grey eyes were bright, as was his grin, but the bags under his eyes told a different story. "It's fine. Potter wants to see us, right?"

"Uncle James does, yeah," Archie confirmed, then he looked over at Thurston. "And you are?"

"Auror Allan Thurston." Thurston was stiff, pulling his hands behind him into a reporting stance. "I'm Mr. Kowalski's handler."

"Handler, is it?" Archie grinned. "There are so many jokes I could make with that, but I won't. Have you eaten? I can get you both a bite before the meeting. And are you staying? I can get a room ready if you are, or—"

"Nah." John grinned in reply, wicked plans already in motion in his head. "To staying, that is, not the snack. I'm starving. But after this meeting, I'll head to Rosier Place. Older brotherly duties, and all—Aldon will put me up, and where better to be through the endgame of the war?"

XXX

_ANs: Ramping up to the end of this fic, finally! Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm and the lovely readers who leave me a comment or review or who come hang out with me on discord. As a fun note, before the next chapter is posted will be RBE round 2, which should have a few rev arc related fics revealed as part of the collection, so hope you check it out!_


	18. Chapter 18

He was here, he was here!

Chess tore out of the Rosier Place library, Bubbles riding on her shoulder. She had felt John moving closer to her over the past day. At first, it had been an indistinct sort of a feeling, a barely noticeable strengthening of their connection, but it had come into focus sometime around noon. He had told her, of course, during their daily calls that he would be coming. She had known from his itinerary that he would be landing in Britain sometime just past noon, but there was a difference between knowing that he'd be back and _feeling_ it as their connection snapped back into place.

It felt right, knowing directly where John would be, as if there was a line stretching across Britain towards him. For all that John had hoped that their connection might fade in time, Francesca had neither blamed him for his mistake in their first year that lead to the link, nor did she regret its effects. Indeed, she liked their connection—she liked feeling as though John was always around, ready for her to fall back on if she needed him.

She had gotten antsier and more excited as the day wore on. He had a meeting at Potter Place first thing on arrival, he had said, but after that he'd said would come see her at Rosier Place. He hadn't said how long the meeting would be, so she had tried to focus on work, but she hadn't been able to concentrate. She hadn't even seen him at Christmas!

She knew the instant that he had arrived. First, he had been somewhere to the west of her, and then he was here, at Rosier Place a few dozen feet away from her outside the Portkey Hub. And now he was only half a hallway away from her, examining the portraits of Aldon's stern-looking ancestors that lined the hallway to the Portkey Hub.

"We're flooded by Americans," one of them commented, his nose turning up. "So many of them."

John was smirking. "Consider it your boot into the twenty-first century," he informed the portrait, who looked offended. "You need it."

"John!"

Francesca launched herself at him, slamming into him with all her weight. He staggered, before reaching back to hug her just as ferociously. "Hey, Monster. Good to see you too."

"You lost weight!" Francesca's tone was accusatory—John had always been big, on the heavy side, but he seemed to have slimmed down in Switzerland. He was still tall and broad-shouldered, but he no longer carried any extra weight with him. His was tanned, and his brown eyes sparked with mischief. She studied him critically. _Did they not give you enough to eat in Switzerland?_

_Food is expensive in Switzerland compared to the US,_ John replied, mind to mind, and Francesca could almost dance. It had been too long since she had heard his voice in her head. "But it's higher quality, so less quantity, more quality. How is it here?"

"Oh…" Francesca shrugged, glancing John in the eye and unleashing more information than she could ever put in words. Rosier Place was lovely, but they were at war, and Aldon was strict with the security protocols. They weren't allowed to move freely even through the manor or the grounds, and Francesca hadn't been outside of Rosier Place or another resistance safehouse since before Christmas. But Aldon had gone out of his way to make her comfortable, as had the manor itself and his house-elves, so she didn't have anything she could complain about.

There was a poke in her mind, John prodding her about Aldon. _Does he treat you well?_ He demanded, his brown eyes serious.

_He's terrified of making a mistake that will have me running to live at Queenscove._ Francesca grinned. _In fact, I'd rather he not be so afraid? He could just... ask what my boundaries are instead of walking around on glass around me. I wouldn't mind being shoved into bed and—_

_Whoa, Monster, too much information, I don't want to know! _John shook his head and shut his eyes, closing the mind link, and Francesca heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her.

"John," Aldon said, coming forward to greet him. "I hope your journey here was safe?"

"If it wasn't safe, I wouldn't be here now, would I?" John replied, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he draped one arm around Francesca's shoulders. "Aldon, my friend, we should talk, don't you think?"

Aldon paused, his bright eyes narrowing, and he cleared his throat again. "I'd be pleased. Is this a report from Potter Place, or—?"

_What's this about, John?_ Francesca asked, looking in John's eyes, but he wasn't looking at her so he didn't hear the thought. She tugged at his arm, insistent, but he wouldn't look at her. "What's this about, John?"

"Francesca," John said cheerfully, tugging at Francesca's braid, "is a member of the Kowalski family. I'm her older brother, and currently her oldest male relation in Wizarding Britain. If you're going to be carrying on with my sister, we're going to have to talk."

Francesca's jaw dropped. "John!"

"Quiet, Francesca. I need to know if he's good enough." John's grin was still wide and delighted, which was how Francesca knew that John was only adopting the stance to rag on Aldon a little. "The Kowalskis are a prominent family in America, you know. We have to make sure this Lord Rosier has the appropriate means to keep you in the comfort you're used to, and then there's all the political matters, like how this union would be seen in the papers at home—"

"I would be delighted to show you my portfolio," Aldon cut in coolly, a steel glint in his own eyes and a half-smile dancing on his face. "I can assure you that my pedigree is impeccable, and I'm sure that I will be able to convince you of the practical benefits of a union between my family and yours. Why don't we speak in my private study? Francesca, you may come along if you like, though you may prefer to return to your research."

John looked down at her, and in one mildly disturbed glance, Francesca could see that they were in complete agreement. It had only been a joke—John hadn't expected a serious reaction and had expected her boyfriend to splutter and be taken aback. Aldon's matter of fact, _but of course_ response was weird, uncomfortable, and most definitely not even a little bit funny.

"Ew," John said, looking back up at Aldon and scrunching his nose in distaste. "Don't refer to yourself and the word pedigree in the same sentence. You're not a dog. All that matters is whether Monster thinks you're good enough for her, though we will have words if you hurt her, got it?"

"Understood," Aldon replied, his smile triumphant. "I suggest not challenging me as if this were a noble marriage negotiation in the future. You forget, this was the expectation for most of my life—you'd never win. Is there any news from Potter Place?"

"Nah, nothing you don't already know, I'm sure." John waved a hand casually. "MACUSA will help clear the No-Majs out of the area of the Ministry of Magic for the night of the attack. Do you have a room to spare? I figured I'd cool my heels here for the rest of the war."

"He can have my old suite of rooms!" Francesca supplied, a bright, hopeful smile on her face. "Since I'm mostly sleeping with you."

Aldon winced, and John started laughing.

"Trust me, I will know far more about your sex life than either of us will be comfortable with," John replied, with a slightly embarrassed grin of his own. "Just like Chess knows far more about mine than either she or Gerry are really comfortable with. Our mental link makes us sort of a package deal, so you'll just have to accept it. Might as well get used to it now."

Aldon winced again but shook his head. "I suppose that is the most practical option. Why don't I show you the way, and I can explain the security protocols in effect at Rosier Place at the same time."

It was after midnight that Francesca sat upright in bed, the wards tugging at her. "Aldon!" she hissed, but it wasn't necessary—Aldon was already awake, his golden eyes shining and unfocused in the darkness. Francesca recognized the look of him tied into his manor, checking the wards, and a moment later the Rosier alarms blared. She gasped, covering her ears for a second, her heart thudding.

"An attack," Aldon said unnecessarily, pulling the covers off and swinging his legs out from bed. "And not a minor foray strike. Get dressed, Francesca."

The wards tugged again, another complaint. Outside the window, it was still dark, with no moon or stars, no grey light of near dawn. It looked peaceful outside, but the roiling in her stomach and the pull of the wards said everything otherwise.

"It's two-thirty in the morning," Aldon said, answering her unspoken question. "We have a little time for tactical planning, Francesca, at least if we hurry."

Francesca took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. They had done this before, she reminded herself sternly, making herself breathe, and it had been fine. They had done this before, and they were prepared. She got up and got dressed.

Lina was already waiting in the formal dining room when they arrived, wearing black jeans, dragonhide boots, and a black leather jacket. Her hair was tied up and out of way, clear from her face, and her dark eyes were alive with anticipation. Francesca could see two handguns peeking out from under her coat, and she knew that Lina wore an ACD on her left forearm. Alex was there too, a sword strapped on his back, and his wand in a holster on his wrist—his magical frequency hadn't been in range for an ACD, though he hadn't seemed bothered by it.

"Voldemort is early," Lina remarked, sounding more pleased than anything else. "He wasn't supposed to hit us until after we took the Ministry, but bleeding him now compared to bleeding him later makes no difference. Aldon, numbers?"

"Around a hundred, Voldemort at the forefront," Aldon replied, and Francesca felt her stomach drop. This wasn't like last time—this was far worse than last time. "Master Regulus Black is with him, unravelling our wards. I give him thirty minutes to break them."

"Thirty minutes is better than none." Lina nodded. "Alastor and the other captains are waking their units. We'll need air support, and reinforcements—another three to four units if we can get them. This isn't a foray strike."

"Malfoy can go," Aldon replied. "Do we need more time? I can engage in a ward battle with Master Black—it would likely buy us more time, but I do not think I can hold out against him. He has years of training that I do not."

"I wouldn't rate yourself too lowly, Aldon," Lina said, glancing at Aldon. "The fact that Master Regulus Black is a formal master of Ward Construction means nothing for a ward battle. He might be better at warding, given time, but has probably never engaged in an active ward battle. Your skills were developed in war, out of practical necessity, and in a ward battle whether someone is accustomed to war will be more important. Go ahead and engage with him, there isn't enough light for gunfire to be of any use anyway. Where are they coming from?"

"There are three groups," Aldon started, then he paused when Lina raised a hand. The other captains were coming into the room, Aldon's second in command and John behind them. Francesca exchanged a worried look with John, letting him know what had happened without any words needed.

John nodded, understanding. His thoughts were a jumble—he was looking for a reason to argue that MACUSA should interfere, but for only him and Francesca, it probably wasn't enough. Especially not while Rosier Place was still standing, and he and Francesca were still nominally fine. He needed to report the action to MACUSA but based on what Francesca had told him about earlier attacks, Patronuses probably wouldn't work right now, and Francesca hadn't managed to shield his satellite phone yet. Unlike Francesca, John was a formal representative of MACUSA while in Wizarding Britain, so he couldn't fight for them.

"I can go to Potter Place," John said quickly. "I need to report to MACUSA, not that they will be likely to do anything, but I can alert Potter Place at the same time. That's the only thing I can do, so let me do it."

"Fine." Lina didn't blink. "Go. Abernathy, Donaldson, we have Voldemort and a hundred of his on our doorstep. Aldon, continue."

John exchanged another long, worried look with Francesca, which said far more than simple worry, then disappeared out the door. Francesca swallowed, and turned back to the conversation.

"Voldemort has split his army into three groups. Front, back, and eastern side, about thirty in each group," Aldon was saying, his hands gesturing in the directions of the three groups he had enumerated earlier. "Voldemort is at the front—Bellatrix Lestrange leads the back. I don't recognize the man heading the eastern group."

"Damn," Lina muttered. "I was hoping they'd do something stupid like try to surround us, without their Stormwing support. Then we could break the line and clean them up."

"We can't always rely on their stupidity, Lina," Moody growled, walking into the formal dining room. "The units are lined up and waiting in the training yard. I'll go with the front group, I want to see this Voldemort monster for myself."

"All right." Lina breathed out slowly, then she shut her eyes. There was a breath of silence, in which Francesca could feel her own heart beating faster than normal. "Aldon, Francesca, you are in charge of the defensive spells. Aldon, go ahead and engage in a ward battle with Master Black, but don't fight seriously—just get a feel for how he does in a ward battle, and for ward battles yourself. Drop the wards before he breaks through them, we'll be in place within fifteen minutes. We'll be behind the line of the defensive spells, so I leave it to you and Francesca to determine the best time to set them off for maximum damage. We're going to get bloody today, and don't hesitate."

"If we manage to kill Voldemort, we can probably end the war here and now," Moody grumbled. "Let's make that a priority, eh? Him and his top lieutenants."

"My people will take the eastern edge," Alex said, a sharp incisor dimpling his lower lip. "We see well in the dark—an inheritance of our enemies."

"I'll take the back," Captain Abernathy said, a hard look in his dark eyes as he pulled up his sleeve to turn on his ACD. "With Bellatrix Lestrange. Which leaves…"

Captain Donaldson nodded. "We'll take the front."

"Good," Lina said, her voice cutting the air. "No more time. We go, and I hope to see you all after we drive him off."

Francesca followed Aldon out of the formal dining room, towards his study. His strides were long, and she hurried to keep up. She wanted to reach out for his hand, but she didn't think it was the time—not when he was so clearly bent on his study, not when he had a manor to defend. He didn't look at her, but his jaw was set, and she had no doubt that he knew that she was trailing him.

His study felt too large, too open in the darkness. The primal keystone called to her, and she reached inside her collar for her paper spells. After the last Rosier Place attack, she had revised all off her spells for indirect fire, so she had nearly two dozen spells ready in her arsenal. She pulled them out and set the shield-charms to one side on the grand desk, then made to hop onto the desk. With Aldon in the room with her, she wasn't sure where else she could sit to maintain direct contact with the keystone.

Aldon shook his head. "No," he murmured, and his voice was rough as he pulled her into his lap. "Let me hold you."

"Won't that be a distraction?" Francesca asked, frowning.

"It'll help me remember what's important," Aldon muttered in reply, and without any further explanation he locked his arms around her waist and shut his eyes.

She felt the change in the air as Aldon connected with his wards. The ground didn't shake, but there was a feeling in the air like it had, a vibration that rippled across the grounds. It was still and silent in the room, too still and silent considering the battle that would happen. Francesca took a deep breath, assuming that this was Aldon starting his ward battle, and set her hands on the primal keystone.

Information flooded her mind, and she gritted her teeth and rode it. Aldon was indeed engaged in what had to be a ward-battle—he was throwing new wards, obstacles, and traps into his wards, fixing the tears that had been ripped by someone on the other side of them. Francesca could see the other man, since he had his magic entangled with the wards; he seemed to be in his late twenties, with dark hair, grey eyes, and high cheekbones. Francesca was disturbed to see how much he looked like Archie.

Francesca swallowed, and turned to look inside the grounds. Lina and Abernathy's group were taking up position in the sculpture garden; they were using the dark, stone figures as cover, and Francesca trusted that they knew to fall back from it quickly. Each and every sculpture in the garden was rigged to explode, and she would set them off when it looked like they would cause maximum damage. They were probably drawing the back group towards the sculpture garden with their presence.

Alex's unit was in a line, flat on their bellies behind the low rise, and most of them had long rifles. In the darkness, and wearing black as they were, they were barely visible.

The front had an array of low walls, which had been set up to provide cover where there was none. At the last attack, there had been three layers of short, low-lying earthen walls; now, the mounds were even more numerous and confusing. In the darkness, they reminded Francesca too much of burial mounds, but Moody and Donaldson's crew were mixed in with them, sheltering behind them. They were in position.

Everyone was in position, and all Francesca had to do was wait, her breath uneven and shaky in the silence. Aldon was a warm, comforting bulk behind her, and his arms were tight around her middle. His head was resting on her back, and she could feel his tension bleeding into her. One peek at the wards showed that they looked nothing like what she had known before. They were messy, not the neat and even spell-work that Aldon had walked her through so long before, and she didn't know enough about wards to know whether the battle was going well.

Minutes ticked by, the sound of the mantle clock in the room too loud. Francesca watched, and she waited, and the wards gave with a massive shudder. Aldon fell back, but from his control and stillness, Francesca knew that he had chosen that moment to unravel the wards. He shifted behind her, readjusting, and reached out one hand to touch the keystone.

"I will watch the front group, and handle the trench and flood spells," Aldon murmured. "Focus on the back and eastern groups."

Francesca gulped. By taking the trench and flood spells, Aldon would be taking responsibility for what they hoped to be the greatest single-stroke carnage of the war. No matter that she had swallowed, her voice was dry and creaky when she replied. "Okay."

There was no hesitation in this group, not like the first attack. At the back, a woman with wild black curls exhorted a crowd of hard-faced men and women forward. The smile on her face was huge, her white teeth bright in the darkness, and they marched forwards. On the eastern edge, a man with a large, beaked nose and a square jaw was doing the same.

Francesca waited, calculating. There was a poison spell at the back, and if she set it off just before the explosive runes, there was a good chance that the poison gas would ignite. But for that to happen, the back group needed to advance a little, into the centre of the minefield. It wasn't very far in, but waiting seemed to take forever. On the eastern edge, they were almost at the first line of fire.

Aldon laid his hand over her own, squeezing her fingers tightly, as reassuring as he could make it be in the moment.

Francesca breathed out, and she triggered the first line of runes on the eastern edge. The ground underneath them shook with the first strike of the battle, and she knew without having to look that the back group had stopped, looking eastwards. It was only a second, before the wild-haired woman turned, screamed something at her own troops, and they moved forwards again.

No, she realized suddenly with dawning horror. Her calculation was wrong. She needed to release the poison at least a minute before the explosive spells, she needed time for the gas to spread. Belatedly, she pulled at the spell—it wouldn't be enough time, she didn't think, but a small fireball was still better than none at all. She couldn't hear the hissing of the gas, but she knew that the back group did, because their wands came up. They were looking around, confused, and Francesca waited as long as she dared. Fifteen seconds, maybe. Twenty seconds, or thirty, and the group of invaders came forward, suspicious and slow in caution.

And then Francesca set the world on fire.

The boom echoed across the grounds, the cloud of fire and ash rising like a beacon on the dark skies. There was a breath, a moment of shock and nothingness, and Francesca became aware that what was left of Voldemort's army was screaming and charging forward. She pulled at the other explosive charms like one pulled sweet potatoes out of the ground, a seemingly never-ending chain of fire.

The ground rocked again, and Francesca clung to the desk. Aldon had pulled the trench spell, ripping a ten-foot chasm in his own grounds with magic and Lina's blood-magic. The bottom of that chasm would be spiked, Francesca knew, and a second later she heard another rumble and a torrent of water came flowing through the gap, with enough force to crush bones.

There was gunfire, now. On the eastern edge, Alex's group had wasted no time, and they were shooting down the people who were dragging themselves, choking and coughing, out of the new Rosier Place moat surrounding the property.

There were so many bodies—some, on the back end, were burnt beyond recognition, while those in the east were being gunned down with brutal efficiency. In the front, when Francesca had a moment to look, the moat ran red with blood.

They weren't done. One would have thought that they would be done, that this carnage would be enough that the attackers would retreat, but there were enough survivors surging forward, still fighting, that they had only entered a new phase of the battle. Francesca took a deep breath and reached for her stack of battle spells. The back and eastern groups, Aldon had said, and there she started throwing lightning.

She didn't know how much time passed, nor how it was going. She saw Alex swap to his wand midway through the fight, and one quick look to the front showed her Moody engaging with a handsome man with dark eyes who seemed far too young for the amount of power he was throwing around. She threw lightning at him, which he dodged, but it gave Moody a moment of advantage. At the back, she saw that the wild-haired woman had survived, and she was now exchanging spell-fire with Lina, who looked no worse for wear. She could feel the subtle pops of Apparition on the ground—reinforcements, she realized, Sirius and the Lord Potter at their head. Three units, it looked like, and there were people in the air on brooms laying down a covering fire as they advanced.

Her eyes were everywhere at once, and she saw the moment that Voldemort's jaw tightened, and that he called the retreat, sending up smoky green sparks. She threw her last lightning spell at him, which seemed to have no effect at all, but the man was gone. Around him, she could see what was left of his army Apparating out with him, and then they were gone.

The beautiful Rosier grounds were destroyed. The lawn was turned up and ruined, and the moat was a dark, haunting gap. The bodies were everywhere—enemies mostly, she hoped, but there would be friends there too.

There were so many bodies.

Francesca took a deep, shaky breath, and started to cry.

XXX

Archie hurried through out of the Portkey Hub, every other Healer and person trained in first aid from Potter Place with him. Dad said that it would be bad, very bad, and Hermione was already gathering the other Healers to join them.

Dad met him on his way to the front doors, his clothing stained with grass, soot, and blood. Archie raised his wand to check him over, but Dad shook his head. "I'm fine, Arch—the blood isn't mine. We have a dozen injured of our own, and probably a dozen of theirs. Lina requests that you focus on ours first."

"How many dead?" Archie couldn't help asking, even as he frowned. "And we'll triage and Heal in the order of priority, Dad. By need, and not by status. Like always, you know that."

"I told Lina that that would be what you would say," Dad replied, with a small shake of his head, and he turned to lead Archie out of the manor. "But I can tell her I passed the message on. At least thirty-five confirmed dead of Voldemort's; five of ours for the moment."

Archie nodded. The numbers were better than he had expected—he had heard worse numbers from the port strikes, and even Healing there hadn't made miracles. He followed Dad out the front doors, and immediately sucked in a breath.

Rosier Place was _carnage_. He barely recognized the grounds, not even in the dim light. It wasn't yet dawn, though the sky was becoming grey in the pre-dawn, and there were _Lumos_ charms bobbing throughout the front yard. The ground was churned and messy, dark with soot and blood, and the small hills that Aldon had formed in his front yard for cover had huge chunks torn out of them. The air carried a sour tang in it, like the aftereffects of a gas, and there was a heavy scent of smoke and ash. In the distance, Archie made out a stream that hadn't been there before, a silent and probably deep trap. Uncle James stood by the surging river, helping to drag bodies out of the water and checking to see if they still held a pulse. Most of the time, he shook his head and directed them to be lined up with the rest of the bodies nearby.

There were so many bodies, lined up in neat rows by the moat, that Archie felt ill. Far more than the numbers that Dad had told him—Dad must not have had accurate numbers. There had to be more than fifty bodies, and Archie could see that someone had left a thin strip between the bodies of Voldemort's followers and their own dead. There were far more of the former than the latter, but in death, they all looked the same. They were no different in death, and they would all burn in the same funeral pyres.

Lina crossed the ground to them, her expression grim. "Alastor is dead," she said, and for all that her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, Archie sensed that there was grief underlying her tone and expression. "Do you know where Ronald Weasley is stationed? Which unit?"

"He's not formally enlisted yet, but he's at the Longbottoms with what's left of the Prewett House units," Dad replied slowly. "Why?"

Lina held up a silver ring. "Stormwing token. Alastor left it to Weasley—said the kid has promise. He—" She cut herself off abruptly, looking out on the battlefield, and coughed. "He didn't have any other family or friends. Most of us don't, but these rings—mine goes to Aldon, of course. I had wondered at the time if Alastor was joking, but Alastor never joked. Not that we ever joke about these things."

"No need to say anything further," Dad replied quickly, saving Lina from having to make any other awkward explanation. If there was one thing that Archie had worked out from watching Lina, it was that Aldon's talent for emotional repression had most likely come from her. "Where are we laying out the injured?"

Lina nodded, all the thanks that she seemed capable of giving, and tucked the ring away in a zippered pocket. She pointed. "To the west of the building. Black, do focus on our own fighters first."

"We'll focus on whoever needs Healing the most," Archie replied, polite but firm, and he gestured for the Healers behind him to follow. "When the other Healers come through, direct them to the wounded, please."

For all the bodies that he had seen in the front, the group of injured seemed very much manageable. Among Voldemort's soldiers, the wounds seemed to be mostly burns, though there were the usual blunt force trauma and spell-damage as well. Their own fighters had fewer burns, but more spell damage. With the ease of practice, the Healers trailing Archie went to work triaging, and Archie went to the first man that he could see.

He was one of Voldemort's soldiers, that much was evident simply by where he was sitting. The people bringing the injured to the make-shift Healing ward were splitting them, their own injured to one side, and the enemy injured to the other. This man had a gunshot wound to his shoulder, seeping plasma and blood. That wouldn't have stopped him from Apparating out—but his broken legs and apparent wandless state did.

"Get away from me," the man snarled, twitching his legs away and gasping from the pain. "Bastard. Blood traitor. _Muggle_-lover."

He said it as if this was the very worst thing that one could be, as if Muggles were little better than animals. Archie fixed the man with a beady eye. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," he said calmly. This was not the first time that he had taken abuse from a patient, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. "But if you're this feisty, you'll survive. _Ferula_."

Bandages appeared, snapping the man's legs into the right position and wrapping them in the right position for Healing. With only a gunshot wound and two broken legs, this man was not a priority. The man spat on him, but Archie disinfected himself without a pause and went onto the next, unmoving patient. When they were injured, they were patients first and foremost, and Archie would worry about their political beliefs when they were Healed.

The Rosier Place attack saw a total of six dead for their side, with one person passing away of wounds sustained in battle. They confirmed at least forty-eight dead of Voldemort's forces, along with a further seven prisoners of war, who were promptly shipped north to a camp in the Clans. It was a devastating blow to Voldemort's side, one that the alliance followed up on a week later with two more devastating blows on Southwold Port and the Ministry of Magic.

Archie dared to hope that the endgame was in sight. After this, there was just Malfoy Manor. Again.

XXX

It was a wet night—not raining, at least not in the way that anyone thought of raining, but water hung in tiny droplets in the air. Late May it might have been, but it was cold, the chill of the air seeping through Draco's Muggle clothes. He hadn't wanted to wear Muggle clothes, but Rosier had insisted. The thick denim of the jeans was rough against his skin, but the fluffy fleece of the pullover kept the wet out better than he could have expected. He also moved better in these clothes than he could have in his robes, so while he had a lingering sense of discomfort with them, he couldn't deny their practical use. He'd never wear these kinds of clothes again, but for now, their practical benefits outweighed the simple fact that Draco was a wizard and that he should dress like one.

Blaise and Abbott were with him, Abbott slipping forward in the undergrowth, leading the way. Of the shifters, she knew these grounds best, having been in charge of the surveillance unit that had watched Malfoy Manor for most of the past year. She was the one who calculated figures, noted the comings and goings, and assessed the common habits of the people who were within Draco's traditional manor house. She had said that the manor was quietest between the hours of about three in the morning and four-thirty, when both the late owls and the early birds were sleeping.

She was leading them to a small gully, near the back of Draco's manor. The ground dipped underneath his feet, and it was even more wet in the narrow, low ditch than it was in the trees around his manor. He knew where he was—there was no part of Draco's manor that he did not know—but it had been many years since he had been in this area. Not since he was a child and had gotten his robes covered in mud and algae.

The water squished in his boots. They were dragonhide, but water still bled through the stitching. His feet were slowly going numb, but he ignored it in favour of trudging forwards. If he succeeded tonight, and he _would_, Pansy would be free. The Rookwoods would be free, and he would be magically the Lord Malfoy. He had several weeks of splitting headaches and illness to look forward to, but after that, he would be an invaluable resource in a Malfoy Manor strike.

In and out. Nothing off the plans, and no heroics. Even with Voldemort's losses at Rosier Place, Southwold, and the Ministry of Magic, he still had more than eighty people at Malfoy Manor. That was fewer than the number of people who had hit Rosier Place only a few weeks ago, but not by much, and the news out of Voldemort's army since then had been awful. Lestrange reported that the Rookwoods had taken the blame for the Rosier Place attack, though they were miraculously still alive. Draco reached behind him, touching a pouch of potions that Harry had given him—a few helpful potions, like her flying potion were included, but they were mostly Healing potions.

Draco was not a trained Healer, so whatever she had given him would have to do to get the Rookwoods out. Aldon had added that Edmund knew how to Heal, so Draco could also lend him his wand for a few minutes if needed. They only needed to be well enough to travel, not completely healthy and Healed. Their Healers, Harry included, would look at them all when they got back.

"This is as far as we can go with you," Abbott whispered, turning around. In the darkness, her blonde hair shone. "We'll wait here, but if things get hairy, you—you can run in whatever direction off the grounds works for you. I have other people on watch, and they can provide you with a bit of cover before breaking and running for themselves. We—we won't cross through onto the grounds, but we can cause a diversion if you need one."

"Thank you," Draco replied automatically, drawing his wand as a precaution. Aldon had offered him one of the new _ACDs_, but Draco had declined—he didn't have the time to learn how to use it properly, and something about the device and the way it sat on his arm made him feel profoundly uncomfortable. It was a strange weight, and on a mission so dangerous, he wanted to keep as many things as he knew as usual.

"The gods go with you," Blaise added, the traditional shifter farewell unusual coming from him. Blaise had never used it before, that or any of the other shifter phrases that Draco had heard Abbott use without thought. His friend radiated nervousness, but the look he gave Draco was long and understanding. "See you later."

Draco nodded and turned to face forwards again. After a moment of thought, he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself—even if he was out of sight, the extra precaution never hurt.

He knew when the boundary to the Malfoy grounds were in front of him. His grounds called to him, stronger now than it had been when he had run from them almost a year ago. Though, a year ago, he had been in too much shock to feel much of anything as he ran.

Right now, his grounds _itched._ Malfoy Manor was filled with people, but none of them were the Lord or Lady Malfoy. His manor felt like it was infested with fleas, but it didn't know what to do about that absent a Lord and Lady Malfoy. It wanted a strong Lord or Lady Malfoy, one to tell it what to do, and it wanted to know if Draco was here to help.

Draco focused, trying to reassure his grounds. He was the Heir Malfoy, and he was here to help, but his grounds would have to help him too. He needed safe passage on the grounds—he needed his manor to disguise him and suspend the new spells that the invader had cast on his grounds for him.

There were so many invaders, the manor complained. So many invaders, and they made a mess, and it wasn't right. The manor didn't want them, it wanted them to go away. It wanted a Lord or Lady Malfoy.

That would happen, Draco replied mentally, trying to soothe his fretting grounds. Rosier had said that his grounds were quiet, giving him information on his demand, but that the Queenscove grounds had a childlike sort of sentience. Draco thought that his grounds were closer to Queenscove, which made sense given that both Malfoy and Queenscove were Book of Gold houses. His grounds had a very firm desire to be free of invaders with a strong Lord or Lady Malfoy at its helm.

He doubled down on the grounds. He was here to help, but it was difficult. It would be a few steps, and he needed the help of the manor to get onto the grounds and to get to the primal keystone. Once that was done, he'd have to leave and come back with reinforcements, but they would expel the invaders, and everything would be right again.

His manor hesitated, but then he had a strong sense of agreement, and a feeling that the wards in front of him lifted. Draco took a deep breath and headed onto his grounds.

The manor could only help in terms of the wards and hidden traps. If Draco was caught by another person, there would be very little the manor could do to save him. He kept himself low to the ground, listening hard for any hint of movement, any whispered conversation, any sign that he was not alone.

The gully ran out well before he got to the back gardens, and it was a hard run of fifty feet between the low-lying ditch and the shadows of the back garden. He was making for the labyrinth—one advantage of being a Malfoy was that he knew the labyrinth maze inside and out, and it would provide the best cover for him to approach the manor.

He could see no one on the grounds. The mist in the air kept him from seeing very far in the distance, and it muffled all sound, but he still could see and hear nothing. With nothing for it, he bolted for the back garden, throwing himself into the shadows behind the statue of the first Lord Malfoy. The stone, grey and pitted with time and covered in wet, green moss, was icy against his back. He inched to one side of the plinth, and, seeing nothing, made a dash to the next shadow of cover.

Leapfrogging from statue to bush, or fountain, or bed of flowers, he found his way to the edge of the labyrinth. Inside, he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief—he was well within the grounds, and he hadn't been caught. The labyrinth was well shielded from sight, so he could slip through it quickly and quietly. He was aiming for the windows at the end of the one of the wings of Malfoy Manor.

The Rookwoods were his first priority, because they knew where the Rookwoods were being kept, and because the Rookwoods would be able to provide Draco with at least some information on the inner guards through Malfoy Manor. Rosier's other spies spoke little about the guard schedules within the manor, and Abbott's surveillance group had established a schedule of positions and hours on the grounds, but not inside the manor. The guard schedule within the manor had seemed less important for an attack, though it was critical for infiltration.

The end of the labyrinth came too quickly. He eyed the windows, lined at the end of the wing. They had to be in one of those windows—they were the only windows that had a view of both the centaur statue and of the phoenix rising from the ashes. An upper floor was most likely, so they couldn't open their window and escape.

He looked around. He could see no one on the grounds, and with his Disillusionment Charm, he didn't think anyone could see him. A deep breath, and he dashed towards the shadows under his manor.

Still no one. He breathed for a minute, listening, but it was silent. That was good.

It took him a moment to find the levitation potion that Harry had given him, along with the other two that he would give to the Rookwoods and the Finite Incantatem Potions that they would need to stop the spell ahead of time. They didn't know enough about the inside of Malfoy Manor, and information from Malfoy Manor said that they were heavily guarded. Indeed, their intelligence from inside Malfoy Manor had suggested that the Rookwoods were being used as bait for a trap.

Other intelligence suggested, however, that the Rookwoods were in deep trouble. They had taken the blame for the failure of the Rosier Place strike, which was the largest loss for Voldemort since Scotland; no one thought they were likely to last. Indeed, Rosier guessed that they were likely to be executed in short order if they were not extracted, and both the articles in the _Daily Prophet_ and their informants agreed on that point. There had been a show trial, and they both had been convicted of treason for failing to provide relevant information to the Ministry of Magic, to wit the extensive prepared defences of Rosier Place, the known residence of one of the Ministry's most violent and dangerous terrorists.

Rosier had been deeply worried, and Draco understood. The Rookwoods were not Draco's closest friends, but Pansy was still in his manor. Pansy might not have been in the same sort of danger—in fact, Rosier had apprised him several times that she was safe and doing well—but just being near Voldemort and his people was dangerous. Several times, Rosier had looked to be on the verge of saying something else, but he had always shaken his head and gone on to discuss another part of the plan.

He threw back the levitation potion, and a minute later, he felt himself floating upwards. He moved slowly, carefully—this part would be dangerous. Floating in the air, he would be in the open, his only disguise his Disilllusionment Charm; he could only hope that he found the Rookwoods quickly.

The second floor window was dark—he stopped for a minute, peering inside, but he couldn't see anything except the shape of furniture. Squinting at the sill, he could make out a fine layer of dust—not this one. He slipped around to the next window, sucking in a breath when he saw it wasn't empty, and surging back to just out of view.

The grounds were still quiet. Draco didn't know whether to be relieved or worried, but it didn't matter. He was here, one way or the other, and he had a job to do.

He peeked in the window again. It was not empty, but it looked like there was only one person, sleeping in a chair by the window. A sentry, he realized—but one that had fallen asleep. He was close.

He swam upwards, towards the next window. A look inside, and he could tell it was the right one. He could barely see the shapes of the two people in the bed, but the residue of fear that radiated from the room was unmistakeable. It was stronger here than anywhere else, and the lock-spell on the window, which he identified with a quick passive magical identification charm, only supported the conclusion. He would have to break this spell, but there were probably alarm-spells attached to it.

Draco breathed out slowly, reaching for the manor. He didn't know if this would work, but it was worth a try. _I need you to open this window for me,_ he thought to his manor. _Without setting off the lock or alarm spells. Please?_

The manor grumbled, seeming to think about it for a minute.

_I can't claim the manor unless I can get in,_ Draco told it reasonably. _You need to let me in, and not just here, either_. _You aren't breaking any rules by doing it—surely other Lords have left you locked behind them before, then died, and then you had to let the Heir in past the lock spells, right?_

There was a strong sense from the manor that those Heirs had used their wands to unlock it and get in.

_But you weren't occupied by invaders then, were you?_ Draco pointed out. _This is a bit different._

There was a pause, then the window scraped upwards. Draco let out a sigh of relief and drifted into the room.

The Rookwoods were sleeping, but woke the instant Draco was inside. Alesana Rookwood gasped, while Edmund Rookwood reached for, not a wand, but a stick of wood the approximate size and shape of a cane. Draco hastily reached up with his own wand, cancelling the Disillusionment he was wearing.

"Malfoy," Edmund whispered, barely audible even in the silence, but his voice was filled with surprise. He lowered the makeshift cane. "I didn't—"

Draco shook his head sharply. "No time," he replied, keeping his voice as quiet as possible as he handed out the levitation and Finite Incantatem potions. "Get dressed, then out the window and make for the borders—someone will intercept you and bring you back to Rosier Place. Are you well enough to travel, or do you need to use my wand for Healing first?"

Edmund took the potions with a shaking hand. "We are well enough. Thank you. What about you—you'll be coming back with us, of course?"

"I need to get Pansy," Draco replied, glancing at the door. "Where is she being kept?"

"No one keeps Pandora Parkinson," Alesana hissed, her eyes narrowing as pulled herself upright with some effort and scooted to the edge of the bed. She was moving stiffly, as if she was hurt, or she had been hurt recently. "Pandora Parkinson keeps _us_."

There was a pregnant silence, and Edmund cleared his throat softly. "I'd advise against getting her," he said quietly. "She… isn't the person we remember."

"Pansy's personality has always been a little flexible," Draco said, shaking his head. He hadn't fully understood Pansy's explanation in their third year, he had only accepted it as fact, but he was sure that whatever personality she had adopted for the moment was only done for her protection. Her protection, and theirs—she had sacrificed herself to save him, and his mother, and her parents only a year ago. He couldn't forget that. He wouldn't forget that. "Whoever she is, whatever she's done—it's for survival only."

Edmund's lips thinned. "She has done… quite a lot more than necessary for survival," he murmured, even as he reached for his robes and pulled them over his nightclothes. He tossed another robe to his wife. "She can most likely be found in Voldemort's bed, right now."

Draco gulped.

"Edmund is right," Alesana whispered, struggling into her own robes with pained gasps. "You should come back out with us. Leave her."

"No." Draco shook his head, his jaw set. It didn't matter what Pansy might have done. She was still Pansy, and he knew Pansy better than anyone—he, Harry, and Pansy, they were a trio. And he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that whatever Pansy had done had been for her survival. Pansy was not violent, and she was not the conniving woman that people described. He knew her better than that, and he had things to do. "Let me Disillusion you, and you can be on your way. I have a couple other things I need to do. If not Pansy, what is the emptiest part of the manor? Where would be the easiest to enter without being noticed?"

Edmund's eyes flickered towards the door. "Not here," he said, a tone of finality in his voice. "I do not know the entrances, but I do not think many people linger in the cellars. They're too cold, and being underground, are not considered at risk for an attack. No sentries."

Draco nodded, swimming in the air back to the window. "Thank you. There are windows I can use for the cellars." He hadn't been down in the cellars himself for many years, but this was his manor, and he knew his home.

"Do you…" Edmund glanced at Alesana. "Should I come with you?"

Draco raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Without a wand?"

Edmund hesitated, and Draco smiled wryly.

"Exactly," he said, and he cast Disillusionment Charms on both of them before refreshing the spell on himself. Making his way to the window, he examined the grounds critically—they were still and silent, covered in a light mist. Without hesitation, Draco slipped out of the window and floated outside. The Rookwoods each took one of the levitation potions and joined him, and he led the way down to the ground.

The silence of the mists was a lie, and belatedly Draco realized that even if a Disillusionment Charm might work at any other time, he was a disturbance in the mist. Water droplets clung to his physical form, outlining him, even if it tried to hide him. There were a dozen figures on the ground, and he knew he had been seen when one of them raised its wand at him.

"Don't land!" he yelled up, the time for silence over. He thrust himself upwards, as if against a current, trying to swim upwards. Forget the rest of the plans—now was the time to run. There were too many of them, and of he and the Rookwoods, he was the only one with the wand. "Forward—away—make for the edge of the grounds!"

It was too late. The Hover-Charm-imbued potion made them fly, but they moved slowly, too slowly, as if they were swimming through the air. A loose tendril of the _Incarcerous _Charm snaked up and twined around Draco's ankle. He twisted in the air, casting a series of curses, and hexes, but there were no less than twelve of them and one of him, and he felt himself being reeled in, a fish on a line. He slashed at the rope with his wand, breaking free for an instant, before someone hit him with a _Petrificus Totalus_. His arms snapped to his sides, his wand falling from his numb grasp, and another _Incarcerous _spell completed his capture.

"Well, well, well," a voice said, and it was a voice that had been burned into Draco's memory, a voice that reappeared often in his nightmares. Voldemort. "What do we have here?"

XXX

Aldon was pacing in his study. His shoulders and back ached—he was too young to have back pain, so it had to be his chair. He had been sitting for too long, waiting.

Malfoy had left around one in the morning. They expected him back around dawn, or shortly afterwards. It was now mid-morning, and there was no sign of his second-in-command. No sign, and no message from any other safehouse.

That was not necessarily a bad sign, Aldon reminded himself sternly. It was not ideal, but there were any multitude of reasons why Malfoy would not have been back on schedule: he might have been delayed, he might have had to go into hiding, he might have had to run for a different safehouse and forgotten to make contact. The fact that Malfoy was not back on schedule meant only that he was not back on schedule, and Aldon should not jump to any conclusions whatsoever about the mere fact that Malfoy was late.

The circle that he was pacing around on his floor spoke differently. He was not calm. He could not be calm. Malfoy would have checked in had he been able, and Aldon was sensible enough to know that if Malfoy was not back on schedule, something had gone terribly wrong.

It could have been minor, he reminded himself again as the minutes, then the hours, ticked away. Past nine in the morning, in fact, no news was probably good news. No news meant it was likelier that Malfoy had simply gone to ground somewhere and hadn't been able to contact him. If something had gone drastically, drastically wrong, then Aldon would have heard. One of his informants would have contacted him about it.

The spotted hyena flew into Aldon's study, and his stomach plummeted.

Vulture's Patronus dropped its lower jaw, its tongue lolling out as it panted. "Draco Malfoy captured at Malfoy Manor. I downplayed any and all information he provided last night, but Voldemort was watching. He is held in the cellars."

The Patronus turned on its tail and disappeared. One message only, too dangerous for a reply.

Aldon stared at the fading misty wisps, his mind completely, utterly blank. Automatically, he deciphered Vulture's message—Vulture, as Voldemort's key torturer for information, had been given Malfoy for the night. He had managed to downplay or dismiss all the information that Draco had given last night, but Voldemort was watching. Voldemort had probably been watching most of the night, Aldon realized, because Voldemort was a sadist. There was little else that Vulture could do, not without risking himself.

He breathed in. And then he breathed out, fighting to make his idiot brain work. They knew this had been risky—Malfoy knew that this had been risky. They had planned for half a dozen eventualities, a full dozen signs that Malfoy should abandon the plans and run for it. There were contingency plans upon contingency plans, but somehow they had never talked about what would happen if Malfoy was captured.

Malfoy knew too much. He had not known very much in the beginning. At first, when Aldon suspected his loyalties and tested him nearly every day or every other day, Aldon had given him only the least sensitive of his informants to manage. Messages from the Guilds, or the Wizarding Wireless Network, or shopkeepers in Diagon Alley or what was left of the Alleys had gone to him for decoding, while Aldon had taken everything from the Ministry, the _Daily Prophet_, and Voldemort's inner circle. In time, Aldon had grown to rely more on Malfoy; it had only been a month or so before Draco started handling some of the Ministry correspondence as well, since there was simply so much more of it than there was of the rest. And eventually, when Aldon noticed that it had been weeks since he had identified any uncertain loyalties in Malfoy, he had taken on some of the inner circle correspondence as Aldon was called to more meetings with the military leaders and spent more time building the defences for his manor.

Malfoy knew, or if he did not know, he had very good guesses, for nearly three in four of Aldon's informants. More than that, he knew at least a third of the runic short-codes for the Portkey Hubs, along with a fair number of their supporters in Diagon Alley, the Guilds, and among the former Dark nobility. He knew their refugee routes, and their inner organization—where was best defended, where the Healers were stationed, where Flint's air support units stayed when not on campaign. He knew more than anyone about Aldon's operation than anyone except Aldon himself.

Aldon knew perfectly well what he needed to do. It was the promise he made to every informant who ever stepped forward, often paired with a slightly mocking smile: a quick death. What his informants did was dangerous, it was meant to emphasize, and Aldon would not be able to rescue them if they were in trouble. The only thing he could, and did, promise his informants in the case of capture was a quick death.

He did not want to do it. He could not do it. Not now. Not without exhausting every other option.

Lina was walking a patrol of Rosier Place. Since the last Rosier Place attack, which had gone very badly indeed for Voldemort, she had walked at least one patrol daily around the manor to add to its defences. The good thing about the Rosier Place attack was that they had laid a devastating blow against Voldemort; the bad thing was that he and Francesca had triggered almost every single defensive spell laid in the ground over months. If they were attacked again, they would not have the strength that they had had before, though the new moat still sat, stinking, a physical barrier on his grounds.

He hesitated, and then he ran out for Lina.

He caught her examining the moat. It was deep—the trench was intended to be some ten feet deep, and it had blown wider than they had anticipated. At almost eight feet wide, it was wide enough that it could not be jumped, not without any other preparations. Few witches or wizards could fly unaided, and Voldemort didn't have an equivalent to the resistance air support units. Harry and Leo had seen to it that there was a "broom importation shortage" and Aldon had seen to it that any brooms they did have were sabotaged.

"Lina," he said, and then he stopped. He didn't know where he was supposed to begin.

Lina straightened from her examination of the moat. She took a moment to study him, and her eyes narrowed.

"What have you done?" she asked, her voice a warning. "I know that look on your face, Aldon."

"I—" Aldon paused, trying to find the words. "I might have… erred in my judgement."

Lina shut her eyes. "You knocked up your girlfriend."

"No!" Aldon flushed.

She opened her eyes, still suspicious. "You're addicted to cocaine. Or heroin. Or Draper's Folly, or whatever the newest magical drug is?"

"No, why would you think such a thing?" Aldon shook his head. "I don't even know what those are."

"For good reason," Lina grumbled. "You're typically only an idiot in your personal life, not in your professional one. What is it?"

Aldon let out a slow breath, gathering his nerve. "Malfoy and I—we launched an infiltration mission into Malfoy Manor. After the Rosier Place attack, Ed and Alice took the blame, and their position was always precarious. The mission was supposed to be half extraction, for Ed and Alice and for Swallow, if she wanted it, and then Draco was supposed to claim the manor as the Lord Malfoy and return."

Lina stared at him. "I told you that extracting Edmund and Alesana Rookwood would be too risky."

Aldon looked away. "I know."

She crossed her hands over her chest. "I told you, weeks ago, to tell them to hang tight and hold on. Six months, maybe."

"I know." Aldon squeezed his eyes shut.

"And instead you risked your second-in-command on a foolhardy mission intended to extract the Rookwoods and another one of your spies who may not need rescue, and to secure an advantage over the manor," Lina finished. Despite her words, she only sounded like she was reciting the facts, without a hint of anger, or annoyance, or frustration.

Aldon would have preferred all of them over this cool, calm recitation. "Yes," he replied, with a slight flinch.

"I don't know why you're speaking to me, then," Lina concluded. "You know exactly what needs to be done. You're not stupid. You're here to ask me for a miracle, and I have none to give you. We are not going to be prepared to move against Malfoy Manor in time for your second-in-command—the earliest we'll be ready to move against Malfoy Manor is still weeks away. You and your second-in-command took the risk when you came up with your plan, and you need to deal with the consequences."

Aldon swallowed. "I can't. Not without trying, even once, to extract him. I'm calling Harry and Leo over to see if they'll launch a rescue mission. Will you—perhaps you might have advice to give?"

Lina studied him, and then she sighed. "My advice would be that you threw your dice when he left, and that you do what you know you must. But I better be there to ensure that you do not do anything else foolhardy."

Harry and Leo were at Rosier Place within the hour, along with Zabini and Abbott. Abbott was worried, as were Harry and Zabini, but as Slytherins, they did not show their emotions so openly. The house-elves, too used to catering for meetings by now, had produced a plate of biscuits, but they were too dry, tasting like nothing in Aldon's mouth.

Harry's bright green eyes seemed accusing, across the table.

Aldon cleared his throat, setting down his biscuit without more than a single bite. "Malfoy was captured," he said, his words short. "One of my spies was able to intercept much of his information and prevent it from reaching Voldemort, but he cannot do so indefinitely. He has warned that he is watched, and there is little he can do. Malfoy is being kept in the cellars, and none of my informants would be able to free him from there. It's simply too risky for them. If we—if we cannot extract him, and soon, I will have no choice."

"No choice but what?" Harry asked quietly, her eyes narrowing.

He stared back, his face pale. "Malfoy knows too much. He knows, or has good guesses, for most of the other spies. He knows at least a third of our runic short-codes for the Portkey Hubs. He knows the identity of our supporters providing us supplies in Diagon Alley, the Guilds, even among the former Dark nobility. He knows our refugee routes, our inner organization—if we cannot extract him quickly, I will have no choice but to issue a kill order for him. My spies cannot smuggle him outside of Malfoy Manor without risk, and they are critical. I cannot lose them as well as Malfoy. But one or two of them should be able to carry out a kill order without too much risk."

Harry looked away, her expression darkening. "How much time?"

"Dawn tomorrow." It was as long as Aldon dared—Malfoy even knew _Vulture's_ identity, from helping Aldon plan his mission to Hogsmeade, and while he would trust Malfoy with much, he could not trust anyone under Voldemort's methods. Voldemort was a strong Legilimens, and anyone would break under torture. They couldn't afford longer.

"Even that may be too long," Lina said bluntly, sitting beside him with her arms crossed. "Were it up to me, I would have issued the kill order already."

"What about our plans for Malfoy Manor?" Leo asked, his expression revealing none of his private thoughts. "Could we accelerate them?"

Lina shook her head. "We overreached on the Ministry of Magic strike—too many injured are still in the Queenscove wards, and we used our complete stock of Muggle incendiaries. We're preparing for a strike on Malfoy Manor, but our earliest estimates of any action are at least three weeks away."

"We cannot wait three weeks," Aldon said, the words coming out roughly. "Malfoy knows too much—leaving him—"

"Leaving him is not an option," Harry interrupted, with a firm shake of her head. "He isn't safe there. We need to get him out. Blaise, you and Hannah were going with him to the edge of the Malfoy estate, weren't you? What happened?"

Abbott's mouth was pinched tight in sadness and worry, but she pulled out several large sheets of parchment and unfolded them on the table. Leaning over, Aldon saw that the first was a highly detailed map of the Malfoy Manor grounds, and a quick glance at the sheet underneath showed that they were rough plans of the interior of Malfoy Manor. Abbott pulled out her wand and, with a wave, the grounds appeared in relief over the map.

"We t-took him along the gully that runs along the back of the property," Abbott explained, pointing out the path with one finger. "It's covered from sight, and not closely patrolled by Voldemort's sentries. He crossed over onto the Malfoy grounds without a problem, and without raising any alarms. It was misty that night, so it was hard to see him after he passed about twenty feet into the grounds. I could hear him moving, but even that faded away. We sat and we waited, and he never came out, but we weren't—we weren't too worried. Once he was finished, the plan was for him to make for whichever boundary was the closest to him at that time."

"Our watch ended at dawn, and while we hadn't seen him, we didn't realize he hadn't come back until we made it back to the Warren," Zabini finished, leaning forward in his seat. "But we had hope that he had gone to ground or gone into hiding within Malfoy Manor itself. We understand that was one of the contingencies."

"That was," Aldon agreed, but Harry interrupted.

"What are the sentry positions?" she demanded. "And their patrol schedule?"

Abbott waved her wand over the map again; small red crosses and lines appeared. "These are the spots of his usual sentry positions. They stay close to the manor house. The lines show the usual patrol routes, but V-Voldemort doesn't have them patrol very much. It—it used to be every four hours, before the Scottish campaign, but since then, maybe twice a day. We can't see very well into the back garden or the labyrinth, there are t-too many obstructions, but Voldemort's army uses it as a sort of leisure park. During the day it's busy, but it's quiet at night."

Harry nodded, studying the map carefully. "Does the map not track the movements of people on the grounds?"

Abbott gave her a puzzled look. "No—how would we do that?"

"Some wards might allow for tracking," Aldon explained shortly. "Rosier House wards allow for this kind of tracking, but having it appear on the map would require the shifters to have tapped into the Malfoy Manor wards. Unlikely, especially if the wards are new."

"I see." Harry paused, looking up from the map. "When is it quietest?"

"Between three and four-thirty in the morning," Abbott replied, pushing the first sheet of parchment at Harry. "You can—you can keep these maps. They're only a copy of our master copies. We took Draco there at three in the morning. The rest of these are a map of the inside of Malfoy Manor, but most of this is done off Blaise's memory, and as—as you can see, they aren't very complete."

"I was not a close childhood friend of Draco's," Zabini acknowledged, with a slight, regretful tilt of his head. "There are areas that I have not seen, the cellars among them."

"That's fine," Harry said, glancing through the other maps. "It doesn't change what needs to be done."

"You know that Voldemort will be waiting," Lina cut in coolly. "Voldemort expects us to come to Malfoy's rescue. If the Rookwoods were important enough that we would risk an extraction plan, then he knows that he's holding someone of value, whether it be the Rookwoods or Malfoy himself. We've never otherwise attempted an extraction from Voldemort's headquarters."

Aldon grimaced at the mention of Rookwoods, but no one commented. If he hadn't wanted to rescue Ed so badly—but he had, and they were where they were now. He pushed the feeling, mixed discomfort along with a knot of other things that he didn't want to handle, away from him to focus on what was necessary.

It was necessary that they plan. It was necessary that he add as much as he could, that Harry and Leo might succeed in their mission. "Malfoy also had particular advantages on these grounds," he added delicately. "He is the Heir Malfoy, and the grounds sit unclaimed. The intent was for him to talk the grounds into letting him in without setting off the wards. You will need an alternative."

"I can help there." Leo looked up from his own examination of the maps. "I have a runecatch—we'll need someone to carry it in, but once there, it creates a vulnerability that we can exploit to slip onto the grounds. We can drop it in one of Voldemort's people's pockets today when they're in Diagon Alley. There's always someone in Diagon Alley, checking up on the shopkeepers. It'll allow in a small group, no more than three. It's not powerful."

"Three…" Harry sucked in a breath. "Very well. Leo and I will go. Tonight. We'll have to improvise the details, but we have no other choice."

"This is foolishness," Lina remarked, studying Harry closely. "Aside from the sheer odds, you lack too much information. You don't know the interior of the manor. You don't know precisely where Malfoy is being kept. You don't know how things might have changed between last night and tonight—Malfoy's capture will have changed Voldemort's sentries, his patrols, potentially everything. He will be waiting, and watching, and hoping to catch more of ours in the same trap he used for Malfoy. This is too much risk."

"Nothing is too much risk for Draco." Harry stood, rolling the maps up with a wave of her wand. "Not when your solution is to kill him."

"Malfoy wanted to take the risk," Aldon said, though it didn't make the tight feeling in his chest any better. "You'll remember that Malfoy was eager to take the risk, that he went to you for potions for this mission. He knew the risk, and he wanted to do it. The kill order—I have no other choice unless you can extract him. He knows too much, and even a day may be too long. We don't know how much Voldemort may already know. This is not something that I want to do, Harry."

His explanations fell on deaf ears. Harry was already striding out of the room with the maps under her arm.

"I'll go with her," Leo added, standing up from his own seat. "I'll make sure she gets out, with or without Malfoy. My word on it."

"We'll put on a larger than usual surveillance group too," Abbott added. "Should—should things come to the worst, we can at least cause a diversion for you."

Leo nodded. "Dawn tomorrow. We'll report back, one way or the other."

Aldon shut his eyes and nodded. A day was the best he could give, and realistically, they had one try. If they failed tonight, there would be no time for a second try. They either succeeded tonight, or they failed, and he would have to deal with the consequences.

He did not want to issue the kill order.

But he would if he had to do it. Malfoy knew too much, and he would.

XXX

Leo had never seen Harry so focused, and considering that this was Harry, that was saying something. Harry had a tunnel-like focus, she always had—from potions, to learning how to duel, to anything else she attempted. She was gifted in her ability to block out anything and everything else. While Harry took care of brewing a cauldron of her shaped imbuing base, Leo dropped by Diagon Alley with Harry's Invisibility Cloak and dropped the runecatch into Bellatrix Lestrange's pocket while she harangued Master Tate in Tate's Apothecary over the ingredients for a Love Potion.

It felt odd, not finalizing their plans over many careful hours and weeks, but they hadn't the time. There wasn't much else to finalize in any case—the only things left to decide were when they should enter, where, and how they would remain undetected. The answers to those questions were: that night after the sun fell, wherever appeared to be the least busy, and the Invisibility Cloak.

The skies were clear when they left Potter Place. The moon was rising, bright against the dark and starry sky—a beautiful night, and a poor one for disguises. The Lord Potter looked distinctly unhappy and on the verge of hexing Harry to stop her when they left, but somehow, he desisted. Leo had no idea what Harry had said to him to let her go, or maybe it was that she had the stubborn look on her face that had said that she simply would not accept no for an answer. She was going after Draco Malfoy, no matter what anyone around her said. Leo said only that he would ensure that she came home, to the best of his ability, and the James' nod had been short and stiff in reply.

The shifters were silent as they led the way to the outer edge of the Malfoy estate. Zabini and Abbott were exchanging grim looks as they walked, but they didn't communicate in any other way that he could detect. More than once, Leo wondered if shifter soulmates had some sort of telepathic connection, or if they simply knew each other well enough by now to be able to read the minute changes in each others' expressions. Their footsteps rustled through the grass, but they left no mark behind them.

They stopped well before the estate boundary, Abbott's blonde pigtails twitching as she stopped to listen, and Zabini wrinkled his nose.

"They—they're out on the grounds," Abbott whispered. "Patrols. Multiple patrols, I can identify at least eight separate footfalls."

"Nine," Zabini muttered under his breath. "Nine scents. Not Voldemort. This is as far as we can take you. Get under cover, and if you keep going northwest, you'll hit the Malfoy boundary in about thirty feet."

"We're going to shift." Abbott added. "We have a larger number of people on surveillance tonight, both to help if—if Draco escapes, or if you need help. It includes people like Blaise, who can fight. Just—just cause a ruckus if you need help, I'll hear it. We'll—we'll be waiting until dawn."

"The gods go with you." Zabini looked at Harry, who arched an eyebrow slightly at him. It was a very traditional farewell, one that had largely gone out of use, but Leo had noticed that many of the shifters still used it.

"I'll be back," Harry said firmly. "With Draco."

"I hope so." Zabini nodded, and he turned and shifted. A black wolf lay down in the grass, its eyes half shut, while a small rabbit sat beside him with her ears twitching towards the manor. Abbott, Leo presumed.

He looked up. The sky was dotted with stars, without a single cloud in the sky. Harry offered him one half of the Invisibility Cloak, and he stepped under it with something like relief. It was too clear, too open, and even if Abbott had said she could hear the patrols, he could hear nothing yet. The silence pressed against his skin, grating with the tension in his muscles.

Harry didn't say anything, and only started moving towards the Malfoy grounds. Moving under the Cloak was awkward—it was made to comfortably fit one adult man, which was exactly what Leo was. Harry was not longer as short or as small she once was either, and in order to keep their feet hidden, they were crouched over and too close together. Their feet caught on each other, and it was only through careful, slow movements that they didn't trip and fall.

The world was strange through the tightly woven fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. The Cloak was transparent and permeable, but what he was able to see was limited by his crouch. He didn't like it—he felt like he could need to draw a wand to defend himself at any time, and he didn't like the feeling that someone could sneak up on him. His back felt bare, vulnerable, and the quiet whisper of the Cloak swaying around them was distracting.

At the boundary, he could see shapes moving in the darkness—they were still some distance away, indistinct, as blurry as the dark manor that loomed in the distance. He should have been able to see it. On such a starry night, the manor should have been clear as day.

"I think we can enter here," Harry said, her words only a breath in the air. "There's enough space between us and those people—we can follow the boundary around until we see a spot where can get closer."

Leo nodded, a short movement, drawing his wand and setting it to the other half of the runecatch. A breeze threatened to rip the Cloak off him, but Harry held onto its edges with a tight grip. The runecatch sensed its partner inside the grounds, and with a snap, created a small gap in the wards, marked with a faint grey light. Harry pushed forward, shuffling through the gap in an awkward, sideways fashion, and the catch broke behind them.

Through the wards, suddenly the sounds were clearer. Voices carried in the breeze, indistinct, but enough to get Leo's guard up. There were too many people on the grounds. From his current, crouched position, he could make out at least six figures about forty feet away. Too many people, and too close.

Harry quietly pushed him towards the right, leading him a path that seemed to cut across the ground in a diagonal. It wasn't a straight line—there were far too many people on the grounds for it. Leo couldn't count how many people were out on the grounds, patrolling or simply enjoying the night-time air, but there were far too many people. It was before midnight, so there might have been people out who might have otherwise gone to bed if they had waited until three, but both he and Harry had thought more time better than less.

More people on the grounds meant fewer in the manor, at least. Or so he hoped.

Harry didn't speak, and they drew a wobbly path across the Malfoy Manor grounds. They couldn't afford to speak—the Invisibility Cloak did not make them inaudible, nor insubstantial. Every time Leo spotted someone's eyes passing over them, or a heard a pause in the murmurs, his guard rose. He was too experienced to twitch, or to freeze, but the desire to do both crept over his shoulders.

They made it to an ivy-covered wall of Malfoy Manor. Carefully, he looked up—there was an open window on the first floor, no doubt left wide to let in the beautiful evening breeze.

"Look," Harry whispered, barely audible, pointing out the same window. "Entry. A closed window or door would set off alarms."

"But we can't both climb under the Cloak," Leo whispered back. "It is early enough—we should wait by one of the doors and slip in there. We have time."

Harry hesitated, her worry for her friend warring with her need for caution, but she nodded and sidled along the side of the wall, making for the back entrance. Fortunately, few people hung close to the walls, and while they came closer to people than Leo was happy with, there didn't seem to be any other option. It would only get worse inside, Leo was sure, and especially in the cellars. Hallways and corridors did not tend to wideness.

There were two sentries at the back entrance, and Leo swallowed. They hadn't been noted on Abbott's map, the first sign that things had indeed changed in the manor. They stood about three feet in front of the back doors, with just enough room for one person to enter or exit between them.

It was tight. He nudged them into standing right behind one of the sentries, the only place where they had a hope of slipping into the manor behind someone else. The sentry shifted, coughing, and both he and Harry froze.

"Did you…?" The man asked, tilting his head to look at his partner. "Hear something? Feel something?"

"I hear a lot of things," the woman replied, glancing at him with annoyance. "First and foremost among them, the sound of your mouth-breathing. Keep your eyes up, Robertson."

The sentry looked forward again, and Leo and Harry both breathed a very silent sigh of relief. Standing behind him, neither he nor Harry dared to move—they were still as stone, waiting long minutes for someone, anyone, to either come out or go inside.

As tense and alert as they were, the slam of the door opening was still a shock. They had watched for it to _open_, but not to be flung open with such violence. Pansy Parkinson strode out, her blonde hair streaming behind her, and Leo was taken aback by the cold sharpness of her blue eyes. Harry had spoken of her often, but Leo had pictured someone very different than the young woman who stood in front of them.

The woman that stood there was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Her skin had a faint tan to it, though Leo knew that alabaster-pale skin was prized among the nobility, and she had the high cheekbones, delicate nose, and pointed chin of most purebloods. Her face was oval, the locks of hair near her face clipped to frame it. The remainder of her hair was left free, flowing nearly to her waist. Around her neck, she wore an emerald necklace that Leo thought might have fed the orphans of the Lower Alleys for two years, and her light blue robes would have kept a Lower Alleys family fed a winter. From her regal bearing, Leo could tell that she was heavily favoured in this new administration.

There was no smile on her face, none of the kindness or gentleness that Harry had always mentioned.

"Carrow," she snapped. "Where is Lestrange?"

"Which one?" the woman on sentry asked, sounding deferential. Leo poked Harry—Parkinson had left the door wide behind her, but Harry stood frozen in place, staring at the woman in front of them.

Parkinson rolled her eyes, seemingly annoyed. "The wild one with a questionable hold on reality," she clarified. "She was not in the dining room, and I have not seen Voldemort either."

"Ah, Bellatrix." Carrow seemed to think for a moment. "I did not see her come outside, nor did I see her leave the Manor. She is normally with Voldemort, is she not?"

Parkinson's face twisted, and Leo shook his head. He poked at Harry again, motioning for them to go through the open door. The window of opportunity was shrinking, so whatever this was about, they didn't have the time to listen. Harry shook herself, facing forward with a determined expression on her face, and they sidled together through the door.

The corridor was wider than Leo had anticipated. Without the Invisibility Cloak, it would have been a nightmare—it was too open, with little cover, and the floors were bare stone. He would have preferred carpet, which muffled sound, and even with the Cloak, he felt too uncovered. They gravitated towards one side of the hallway, but they had only gone a few steps before someone strode down the hallway straight for them, and they had to scramble out of the way.

The hallway was not quiet. It was not empty. Halfway down the length of the building, Leo realized that it was a matter of status—those that were higher in Voldemort's favour walked down the centre of the corridor, which he learned when Parkinson stormed back into the manor, an expression of deep resentment on her face.

They had a reasonably good map of the first floor. While Harry had been inside Malfoy Manor only a few times, Zabini had visited periodically throughout his childhood and had a good memory. The cellars weren't accessed by the central stairs, which only led upwards. Zabini had only ever taken the central stairs, but he had noted out two possible stairwells which might go into the cellars. Harry thought that both would probably go into the cellars, simply because it was foolish, in such a large manor, for there to only be one set of stairs in and out of the underground levels.

He and Harry made for the closest one, pausing and freezing when people passed them. The door to the stairwell was, thankfully, open when they reached it. With a small breath of relief, Leo saw that there were indeed stairs that led downwards, though the stairs were far narrower than he would have liked. They were built for one person, and while two might squeeze, it would be impossible to slip by anyone on these stairs. Two would mean that both would have to suck in their stomachs, and they would brush against each other nonetheless.

It was these stairs or find the other set to see if they were any wider. "So?"

"Nothing for it," Harry whispered back, her words a breath against his ear. "Let's not waste time."

"No dust," Leo muttered, running his finger along the bannister. "It's been used recently."

"We'll move quick," Harry said, and she tugged him into the stairwell.

They took the stairs as quickly as they could, under the Cloak. The steps twisted as they went down, turning in the circle. Most stairwells had only something like sixteen to twenty-four steps between two floors, or even fewer in older buildings where the stairs tended to be steeper and underground floors had lower ceilings. They had just crossed the twelfth step when Leo heard a sound that he dreaded.

Speech. A woman was angry, muttering something while she stormed up the stairs. He yanked at Harry's arm, pulling her back up the last few steps, but then—

The heavy tread of feet, striding down the stairs.

He looked at Harry, whose eyes flickered between the steps up and down. They'd have to fight, and the question was—forward, or back?

"Bella," the voice from behind them said, high-pitched and cold, and then it paused. Leo swallowed. He knew who it was without need for explanation, his magic crawling over his shoulders in warning. The blood drained from Harry's face, and the steps from behind were coming closer. In front of them, Bellatrix Lestrange was only perhaps six steps away.

Bellatrix Lestrange, or Voldemort himself. Leo turned upwards, thinking of using their only advantage to Stun them both and either move on or get away, but Voldemort was already there, and his wand was raised.

"We have intruders," the man said. He was young, maybe even younger than Leo himself. There was a tilt of his thin lips, and a twist of his wand, and Leo was screaming.

There were no words to describe the pain. His stomach was burning, coiling in on itself, and every nerve ending he had was on fire. His limbs were twisting and cracking, and he had no control of them at all. He fell against Harry, a heavy weight, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except scream. There was nothing in his world except blinding, burning, roasting pain. Leo was on fire, being burned alive.

He didn't feel it when Harry blasted a hole in the floor. He only knew that he was falling, they were falling, and a Wailing Charm was ringing in his ears. It hurt, but not as much as that spell had, and he staggered to his feet. Shocks of pain were still rippling down his arms and legs, but he ignored them.

"We need to get out," he rasped, flicking out his wand. They were standing in some sort of cupboard, and the stone hallway in front of them was narrow and lit. People had been down this path, and Voldemort knew where he and Harry had gone, and the alarms were sounding. Already he could hear people running after them, catching up to them. "Now."

"Draco—" Harry looked down the hallway. "We're close."

"No." Leo's word was final, and he pushed her ahead of him. Voldemort might have been momentarily distracted by setting off the alarms and calling for backup, but that wouldn't last. "If that was one round of the Cruciatus and I can barely stand, then Draco would need quite a lot more help than we could give him, if he's even still alive. We can't carry him out. They have had him almost a full day. We need to go."

"But—" Her face was torn as she looked down the hallway towards her friend, as she took in Leo, who was still shaking, and as she glanced up. "We can't go back that way anyway. Come on."

She shoved the Cloak back in her bag and took off at a run down the hallway, blasting holes in most of the doors they passed. She was still looking for Draco, Leo knew—looking for a miracle, looking to make a miracle, as she so often did.

Leo went after her. He was going to die here, he knew it. He would go before her, he decided, and he would go down fighting. He'd get her out on the grounds at least, and maybe Zabini and the shifters would be able to cause enough of a diversion that she could escape. There was always the possibility that she would come back, because Harry was nothing if not devoted to her friends and family, but he could pray that against these odds, even Harry would balk. Even if he had to give his life for hers.

Each of the rooms they passed was dark, without a hint of life in them. One room, he saw, was filled with bottles of wine; another, with preserves. A third had shelves and shelves of potions ingredients, and a fourth was filled with art that the Manor's inhabitants had collected and then, apparently, decided not to display. Leo could hear people in the cellars with them now, shouting and making no effort to be quiet, but there were enough of them that it didn't matter that Leo could hear them. They were simply everywhere, and he and Harry had never had a map for the cellars of Malfoy Manor. Both of the stairwells they knew of would be blocked by now. In desperation, Leo focused to see if he could try to Apparate, but the Anti-Apparation Wards were still in effect. He couldn't break this—he didn't have the power for it. Especially not after the Cruciatus Curse.

A sliver of light, pooling from one of the doors that Harry had broken. She had moved on, not seeing Draco, but Leo grabbed her arm. "A window," he gasped, towing her towards that room, his grip a vice. "We need to go, Harry!"

"Just a few more doors," Harry cried. "They're far enough away—I can check just a few more doors for Draco—"

Leo shut her up by pressing his lips against hers. It was a rough kiss, nothing like the kisses that he had once dreamed of giving her, and it was long before she was ready. But if he would only have one kiss with her ever, it would have to do. "I will die for you," he said, his voice rasping. "I will die for you, most probably here, and the only thing I want right now is for you to get out. Please, Harry."

She looked stunned, then she took one last, lingering look at the hallway, and scrambled into the room where pale moonlight shone.

The room was filled with shelves, the items on them covered by dark cloth. Leo didn't waste time looking at any of them, bent on the bright window on the other side of the room. It was a small window—Harry would fit, though Leo was less sure about himself. That didn't matter, though. A stand here was as good as a stand anywhere else.

He broke the lock on the window with no ceremony and forced it open with an aching arm. A new alarm sounded, no doubt telling everyone in the manor exactly where they were, but he didn't care. He cupped his hands, a silent request for Harry to please, please allow him to hoist her up and out, and she took it. She pulled herself up and out of the window, then she reached a hand back in for him.

Leo shook his head. "I'll hold him here," he said. "Go."

"Absolutely not," Harry snarled back. "I might have lost Draco, but I am not losing you. Take my hand, you oaf—he isn't here yet, and the faster you move, the faster we'll both move."

There was a howl on the grounds. A loud, echoing howl, and Leo knew that it was their diversion. The shifters weren't much for fighting, so they would only buy distraction and time. He looked back up at Harry, whose hand was still outstretched. She was crying, a tear winding its way down her face, but her mouth was stubborn. He hesitated. He should stay—hold Voldemort here, and buy more time for her to run.

"Hurry up," she said. "Hurry up, and live, dammit. With me."

He swallowed. He did want to live. He did want to live with her, and he could always turn around and hold Voldemort off on the grounds if they needed it. He took the proffered hand, and Harry pulled him up.

"They're here! _Incendio!_" He heard someone screaming, a woman's voice, and his legs were on fire. Literal fire this time, and his grip slipped, but Harry caught him and dragged him out. He put out his legs with an _Aguamenti _spell, the cold liquid sizzling agony against his skin, and Harry pulled him upright.

The howling was far to the left of them, and now it was interspersed with several loud yips and barks. The grounds were emptier than he remembered, people either having run inside to Voldemort's alarm, or after Zabini's distraction. They couldn't miss this chance, and he shambled forward in a sorry excuse for a run, Harry by his side.

The edge to the grounds was only a few hundred feet away, but they felt like miles.

XXX

_AN: meek says I'm evil for leaving you hanging like that, but it's been too long since we've had an ending like this, isn't it? Whee, so much action, and here we go crashing towards the finale! Other things: RBE Round 2 on AO3 was finished, and I have 2 rev arc works included in that collection, which will slowly wind their way over here as part of Flashes once author reveals happen. Thank you for the artists who drew for me! As a further note, it's my birthday coming up in a few weeks, and there's nothing I love more than fanart or recursive rev arc fanworks, and I have a special hankering for Aldon/Chess fluff. Must I write my own fluff for them? Really? Anyway-leave me a comment or review, and chapter 19 will come at you in 2 weeks._


	19. Chapter 19

Aldon waited—not in his study, this time, but in the formal dining room. The house-elves had left all three of the chandeliers lit for him, along with a carafe of coffee and a tray of his favourite biscuits and snacks. He didn't know what Harry had planned—neither she nor Leo had given him any details—but he couldn't say he cared. If he got his second-in-command back, he did not really care how they did it.

Francesca had come by sometime in the evening, her worry for him obvious in her face. She had sat with him, and with her and John there, he could hardly do anything except eat dinner and attempt to put a good face on for the two of them. He didn't remember what dinner had been, because it had been completely tasteless, nor did he remember what they had talked about—he only remembered the awkward smile he'd tried to put on, and his failing attempt to be as normal as possible. For all he knew, he'd promised to invest the entirety of the Rosier Investment Trust into the ACD project. He did remember the kiss that Francesca had pressed onto his cheek before she left, presumably to read in bed before turning in, as was her usual habit.

Lina, too, had disappeared—to report the development to the Lord Potter and Sirius, no doubt. In her stead, Ronald Weasley had joined the Stormwing trainees in their patrols of Rosier Place. With Malfoy in his clutches, though, Aldon doubted that Voldemort would be making any strikes anywhere else tonight. Malfoy was too important a treasure, and in his position, Aldon would have spent every resource at his disposal breaking him and obtaining every possible scrap of information that the man had.

He didn't know how much Malfoy would have spilled in the last day. He did not dare hope that it was nothing—Voldemort was not constrained in his ability to torture, and he knew for a fact that the man was a sadist who preferred it, though Veritaserum was more effective. The man was also a Legilimens, and Aldon had never taken the time to challenge Malfoy's mental shields.

Why hadn't he done that? Why didn't Aldon, as a matter of practice, challenge all his informants with Legilimency? Probably because, absent his Truth-Speaking ability, Aldon was a trash Legilimens, and the mind arts were not taught as a matter of course in the former Wizarding Britain. In hindsight, he should have asked John to assault Malfoy's mental shields in preparation for his mission. John had been here for weeks, and it simply hadn't occurred to him. Because he was an idiot, and he'd believed that Malfoy would succeed. He'd honestly, truly believed that Malfoy would succeed.

They hadn't even gotten Ed or Alice out. Aldon had heard nothing from anyone about the fate of the Rookwoods, which meant that, most likely, nothing had changed. He had hoped that perhaps Malfoy had gotten to them before being caught, but that didn't appear to be the case. They were nowhere better than where they had been, and possibly quite a lot worse, depending on how badly Malfoy had been caught. He didn't know.

He couldn't afford to think about Ed or Alice right now. Not yet—not before he even knew whether Harry and Leo succeeded in getting Malfoy out. Malfoy was the security risk, whether he wanted to be one or not. Malfoy was the one with critical information about the resistance, while Ed and Alice knew nothing worth knowing about the resistance at all.

Lina hadn't returned for dinner, nor during the night. She must have found it prudent to wait elsewhere, and perhaps Aldon ought to have done the same. Harry and Leo were most likely to return first to Potter Place, not to Rosier Place, but Aldon couldn't leave his manor to wait elsewhere. Not for so long, and not when he knew that they would come to tell him the result at Rosier Place before long anyway.

The candles above burned bright, and he wanted a drink. He desperately, desperately wanted a drink, but he could not afford to have one. Not having one was harder than he had anticipated, but he didn't know when Harry and Leo would be returning to report. He had to have complete control of his faculties, much as he did not want to have them. One drink wouldn't be so bad, but in his state, he wasn't sure he trusted himself to have only one drink. One drink would inevitably turn into two, into three, and then the whole bottle.

He wished he had had the self-control to say that he had convinced himself that a drink was a bad idea and that he had refrained. In truth, he had known that a drink was a bad idea, but around midnight he had gone to his father's liquor cabinet anyway. Just one, he had managed to convince himself. It would be hours yet before Leo and Harry returned, and if he could only have one drink, better to have it earlier in the night. But the cabinet had been empty—every last bottle had been taken away. He didn't know who had done it, nor where they would have stored it, but at that moment he simply didn't have the wherewithal to search for it. Instead, he had shut the cabinet door, and returned to the formal dining hall for another steaming mug of coffee.

It was well past midnight by now, and a mental review of his manor told him that most people were asleep unless they were needed elsewhere. Alex was walking a patrol with one of his men, taking a round at the guard duty roster that ruled most of their wartime lives, while Francesca was sleeping in his rooms. John had a device in one hand, and he was holding it to one ear, making a report to his superiors. Aldon lingered, listening, but John was only noting that it seemed like an espionage or sabotage mission had gone awry, and he would report further when he obtained more information.

At another time, Aldon would have called John an American spy. But he was hardly a spy—indeed, his status in the war was very clear. He was the American liaison to the resistance, and he was not one of theirs. If one took their mental link and closeness as a factor, so was Francesca. Their loyalties ultimately belonged to MACUSA, but Aldon could not say he cared. MACUSA was tantamount to being an ally, if a quiet one, and greatly favoured the resistance over Voldemort's regime.

It wasn't dawn when he felt the Portkey Hub signal. It was hours yet to dawn when he felt the Portkey Hub signal. Transit from Potter Place—one person only. Aldon swallowed, a hard lump in his throat, and allowed the transit. Only Harry stepped through, and the expression on her face said everything. Her mouth was set in grimness, but there was a haunted, hurt look in her eyes, and no amount of stoicism could hide her pain.

She hadn't succeeded.

Aldon thought about going to meet her, but his legs were numb and tingling. He didn't know if they would support his weight presently, and the formal dining room was the first place she would check for him anyway. Considering it was the only room in the common areas that was lit, there was nowhere else she would go. Needing something to do, he busied himself pouring an extra cup of coffee, steaming hot, and arranging two sugar cubes and a thumb-sized pitcher of milk close to her plate. He drank his coffee black, and he knew Archie preferred cream and too much sugar, but he had no idea about Harry.

He pushed the mug towards her when she walked into the room. She looked down at the mug, a distant look of confusion passing her face, and shook her head. "No, thank you," she said, and she didn't sound like herself. Her voice was soft, but it had a raspy quality to it, and on closer look Aldon could see that the skin below her eyes was pink. She had been crying. "I don't drink coffee."

"Is there anything else you would like?" Aldon asked. They were only delaying the inevitable—the news that she did not want to give, and that he did not want to give. "I can summon a house-elf. Anything you like."

"No." Harry took a deep breath, steeling herself, and looked up at him. "No, I don't need anything. I didn't make it, Aldon. We crossed onto the grounds without detection—Leo was able to get his rune-catch into someone's pocket in Diagon Alley this afternoon, and that part went off without any problems. We managed to sneak across the grounds and into Malfoy Manor, but were caught on the stairs leading into the cellars. We didn't have time to search inside the cellars, and we only just got away."

"And Leo?"

Harry shook her head. "At Queenscove. He—Voldemort hit him with the Cruciatus Curse, he couldn't stop shaking the entire way home. He was also burned on his legs. I could have Healed him at Potter Place, but—"

She paused, and Aldon didn't press her on it. He suspected that she simply wasn't able to concentrate enough to do the proper spells. The Portkey Hub signalled again, this time announcing a transit from Queenscove, one person. Aldon allowed the transit, checking the hallway reflexively—Lina strode out of the Hub.

"Lina has returned," Aldon said. "From Queenscove?"

Harry let out a shaky breath. "She went with Leo to Queenscove. An update."

Aldon nodded, and waited for Lina to come into the formal dining room. He didn't know what else needed to be said—he and Malfoy had failed in their mission, and Harry and Leo had failed in theirs. Did the details of how and why matter?

"Zabini will make it," Lina said with a sigh, dropping into a chair beside Harry and reaching for the untouched mug of coffee. "You're not having this, are you?"

"Zabini?" Aldon frowned, glancing between Lina and Harry. "What happened to Zabini?"

Harry had flinched at the mention of Zabini. "He covered for us while Leo and I escaped. A diversion."

"The shifters brought him in while I was at Queenscove. He took three curses, and individually each of them would probably be an easy Heal, but they're reacting to each other—if it weren't for his soul-bond, he would be dead," Lina added, matter-of-fact. "I suppose we should be glad that whatever the shifters do to acknowledge a soul-bond was done, because Abbott's lifeforce sustained them both long enough for the Queenscoves to stabilize him. I expect he'll be out of commission for the rest of the war. Abbott is out with him, at least until Zabini is conscious and well on the road to recovery. Christian, Abbott's second-in-command, is taking over the Malfoy Manor surveillance team for now."

Aldon nodded, taking note of the information. He didn't know Christian well, but he had met the shifter wolf on a few occasions and had always been impressed with his work. "Then…"

Lina studied him, and her brown eyes were knowing.

Aldon took a deep breath, steadying himself. His legs didn't feel any stronger than they did earlier, but when he stood, they seemed to hold him up fine. "Then I will—I will go and do what I must."

His study was cold in darkness, but he didn't think it appropriate to trigger the usual light-spells or light a candle. While it wouldn't make a difference, he didn't think that the sort of thing he was about to do should be done under clean, bright lights. He was calling for someone's death, and an order to kill one of his own was a very different thing than killing in the heat of battle, or killing someone who was attacking him. A kill order was meant for the darkness.

He took a moment to think about his second-in-command. Over the past few months, Aldon had learned a great many things about Draco Malfoy, more than he was capable of putting into words.

Draco Malfoy was stubborn. He could be absolutely infuriating when he wanted to be. Listening to him spew the lines that Aldon had heard his entire life about blood status, an exception always carved for his best friend Harry because she was different, had been tiresome and exasperating. But his loyalty to his beliefs was in a way a demonstration of one of his greatest qualities: he was intensely loyal, to his friends, to his family, to his father and to the former Lord Riddle, even if they hadn't deserved it.

But Draco Malfoy was also strong—he was strong enough to let go of his beliefs when he couldn't support them anymore, even when letting go of those beliefs benefitted him not at all and most likely hurt him personally. In that, Draco Malfoy was perhaps stronger than most Dark Society purebloods, most of whom still stood with Voldemort rather than ally themselves with the lesser-blooded for the freedom of them all, even if that meant a loss in their own privilege. He might have been stronger than Aldon, because had Aldon been a true pureblood, he thought there was a very good chance that he would have been standing with Voldemort. For his own protection and survival, if not his beliefs.

Aldon owed Draco an easy death. Death was never easy, but a quick death was better than one drawn out by torture. He could do no less than issue this order, because refusing to do so would be a poor way to repay Draco's service.

It was with that thought that Aldon drew his wand. "_Expecto Patronum_," he demanded—but there was no happy memory in this spell. There was only need, and he needed messengers. "_Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum."_

He had four spies within Malfoy Manor presently—one lowly ranked, one trusted, and two in the upper ranks. This message would go to all of them because it needed to be done, by whoever could do it. Aldon did not much care who did.

"Messages, private," he started, his voice dry and devoid of all emotion as he stared at his ghostly, grey messengers. The merlins cocked their heads at him, waiting. "To Vulture, Swallow, Peregrine, and Osprey. Draco Malfoy must die. Kill him. End message, no reply."

The Patronuses didn't respond. They only turned on their tails and, one by one, soared northwest to Malfoy Manor.

Aldon stood in front of his window for several long minutes, staring after them.

XXX

Draco hurt. Every part of him hurt, from his broken arms to his broken legs and his broken—he didn't even know how much else was broken. He didn't want to think on it.

Caelum Lestrange, Draco's own cousin, was a terrifying individual. Harry had spoken of him many times, and she had often said that he was not as bad as he seemed, but from his perspective, Draco couldn't see it. Lestrange was a master of torture, a fact that started from the minute Lestrange had walked in and laid down two very Muggle implements.

A hammer. And a small knife. A knife that, if Draco were honest with himself, looked very much like some of the knives that Harry carried. A knife that was used primarily for harvesting Potions ingredients, unless Draco was very much mistaken.

"So," Caelum Lestrange had said, his voice low and entirely too composed. He reeked of hate, dark hatred filling the small room in the cellars where Draco had been stripped to his waist and tied to a chair, wandless. "You can tell me everything you know about the resistance, or I can make you tell me. Your choice."

Caelum Lestrange was a spy. Draco knew that, but looking into his cousin's ice-blue eyes, he could and did believe otherwise. And with Voldemort watching, only a few feet away from them, he could afford to do nothing less. Spy or not, Caelum Lestrange could show him no mercy whatsoever. It was only a bare, brief moment of understanding, and then it was gone.

"Go to hell," Draco had spat in his cousin's face, and that was his last of his bravado.

Within hours, he had screamed out the truth. He had also screamed out lies—lies upon lies upon even more lies. He had lied so much and been in so much pain that he didn't think he knew what the truth was anymore, and he could only hope that his memories said the same thing. Voldemort was a Legilimens, of that he was fairly certain still, so he had screamed out literally everything that had come to mind, no matter how brave, how true, how false, how embarrassing. He did not know how much pain it was possible to feel before Caelum Lestrange had gotten started.

He had blacked out at some point—somewhere in between begging for his death, losing control of his bowels, or screaming his defiance, he didn't know. Those early hours were now a blessed, blessed blur. A few hours of sleep, that was all he had been able to get, before it was broken by a person even worse than Caelum Lestrange: Bellatrix Lestrange.

If the younger Lestrange was bad, he was nothing compared to his mother. Bellatrix Lestrange had no finesse, that was true, but she was a master of the Cruciatus Curse, a tool that the younger Lestrange had not resorted to even once. Where Caelum had been brutal efficiency and hatred, Bellatrix felt only pleasure when she tortured. She _enjoyed_ it, enjoyed his screaming, enjoyed the sense of power, and the entire time a mad light had danced in her eyes.

Each round of the Cruciatus Curse had been worse than the last, from the fires that had burned through his body, to the mystery water-sense that had drowned him. He had been fire, and he had been ice, and his body had been driven against sharp rocks that felt like they were flaying his flesh from his bone. Unlike with the younger Lestrange, there had been no reprieve into unconsciousness—the Cruciatus Curse prevented it. Draco had simply hurt, and he had hurt and hurt until Bellatrix had spat on him, called him weak, and left.

Even now, he shook. He trembled like a leaf in the wind, and he didn't think he would stop shaking. Every racking shiver only caused more pain, jarring as it was on his many injuries. It was out of his control, just like his stink. He had lost control of his bowels more than once, and he was disgusting, but there wasn't anything he could do about it and he was too injured to care. He had reached out to his manor, more than once, but he hadn't managed to claim the manor—it could do nothing, not against something so physical.

The door creaked open, and Draco tried to lift his head, to see who was there next. Would it be Caelum? Or Bellatrix? Or Voldemort himself, ready to slam himself into Draco's mind, which he could only hope had been addled by a day of torture?

Draco's life might be over, but still he wanted the resistance to succeed. He might never see the world that Rosier wanted to create, the world that he still didn't know if he wanted, but he knew well that he didn't want the world that Voldemort ruled.

Blonde hair, waist-length. A beautiful, pale green nightdress, one that Draco was sure he should not be seeing, even if the woman standing before him was his own fiancée. Or she had been once. He didn't know where they stood on that point anymore. Her blue eyes were wide, but her mouth was small in sorrow.

"Pans," Draco choked out, and he tried to smile for her. It hurt, his mouth twisting oddly, and he realized he was missing teeth. He didn't remember losing them. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

She stood there, shivering, and she stared at him. There was no shock on her face, and maybe that was the worst part of all—Pansy could stand before him when he was like this, and she wasn't shocked. She wasn't horrified. She was only there, her face crumpled in distress, her lower lip trembling as she rubbed her upper arms to ward off the chill.

"Why, _why_ did you come back?" she asked, her voice a soft, plaintive cry. "I got you out—you, and Mum, and Narcissa. Why didn't you leave? Why didn't you flee to Switzerland with Narcissa? Why did you stay, and why did you come back _here?_"

"You were here, Pans," Draco said, and he coughed, a wracking cough that ached through his ribs. Maybe one of his ribs was broken. "I couldn't leave you here."

Pansy sighed, bringing her hand up to push her hair out of her face. "Didn't you hear the news? The information passed all over Britain for the past year? I've joined Voldemort's side—I'm his whore, and as his whore I rank in his inner circle. I've killed, Drake; I killed your father, and I've killed again in battle and in Wales. I've hurt people you and Harry care about, including Sirius. Including Blaise. Why—how could you have come back?"

"Because I didn't believe it of you," Draco replied steadily, looking her in the face as best as he was able. Pansy was elegant and beautiful, and he knew what everyone said about her, but he also knew there was more to it. The mere fact that she was here, staring him in the face, told him that he was right. "Because I knew that whatever you had said or done, you did it for your own protection, and for no other reason."

One side of her mouth turned up. "As faithful as ever, Drake," she murmured. "Whatever I did was for my protection, yes—but it was also for the resistance. I wish you had listened to the _Daily Prophet_ or _Bridge_ about me, and that you'd hated me for killing your father and becoming Voldemort's whore. Because, then, you wouldn't be here."

"You're a spy," Draco said, the pieces of the puzzle clicking too late in his head. "Rosier's highest-ranking spy. You're the Swallow."

There was a distant flash of anger that Rosier hadn't told him. But, Draco realized, it wouldn't have made a whit of difference. Had Rosier told him, Draco would have been furious, blaming Rosier for having put Pansy in such a dangerous position, and doubly hellbent on getting Pansy out of Malfoy Manor. Malfoy Manor wasn't safe, and it was least of all so for a spy—were they caught, then much like Draco, they could only look forward to weeks of torture before their inevitable deaths. Had he known that Pansy was a spy, he would have gone in all the same, for the Rookwoods, to claim the manor, and to rescue Pansy.

"I am," Pansy said, and she drew her wand and a sheet of parchment with trembling hands. "And if you know of any other spies, don't tell me. Voldemort is in my mind too often, and it's too much of a risk if I'm caught. I can't—Drake, I can't get you out of here. You're too deep in the cellars, and there are too many guards. I can't get you out."

Draco shut his eyes. "I know."

"Aldon only ever makes one promise." Pansy's voice broke, and he watched as a tear wound its way down her cheek. "A quick death. He made that promise to you, and me, to everyone in his service, didn't he? If we're caught, he can't save us. The only thing he can do for us is grant us a quick death."

"He did." Draco coughed, and a wad of blood and spit came out. Not very attractive. "I understand, Pans."

"He tried, though." Pansy paused. "If—if that helps. For you, Aldon tried. Harry and her friend came a few hours ago. They were almost caught, as was Blaise, but they got away."

Draco nodded, his head spinning. Strangely, it was nice to know that Rosier hadn't written him off so quickly, that he and Harry had tried to mount a rescue for him. He couldn't blame them for failing—if he, the Heir Malfoy, couldn't slip into his own manor for an extraction mission, then it was likely impossible. "That's good to know. Pans—tell them—"

He paused. Standing on the threshold of death, what did he want to say? What could he say? He was in too much pain to think very clearly, and he knew his life was counted in seconds now. He had known his death was coming for a day, and in the end, all he had to say was simple.

"Tell my mother I loved her. And Harry. And Blaise and Millie and Theo. Don't tell that to bloody fucking Rosier, because I didn't love him, but tell him that I respected him. And Pans, you—I love you. I love you, Pans."

"I know." Pansy took a deep, wracking breath. Tears were coming down her face, but she didn't wipe them away. "I love you too, Drake—not the way you wanted, maybe, but I love you too. I do love you."

Draco nodded, shutting his eyes again. "Do it, Pans."

A crinkle of paper, a whispered incantation. The sound of rushing, impending death.

And the bliss of nothing.

XXX

Aldon had not been himself, these past few days. He told Francesca very little, as he had always done, but she knew enough to know that something was very, very wrong. She hadn't seen Draco, Aldon's second-in-command, around recently either, and she knew that he and Aldon had been working on a top-secret mission for some time. Something to rescue the Rookwoods, she thought, but it wasn't really her role to say anything one way or another. She had simply made a note of the information and had focused on her own work.

But Aldon had barely slept the past two nights. He had moved like a zombie throughout his day, his mind elsewhere, and the show that he had put on at dinner for her and John had been pitiful. He seemed to have forgotten how to use his knife and fork, he kept pushing food around on his plate, and she didn't think he was processing anything that they had said. Indeed, she and John had spent no less than fifteen minutes talking about their immediately invented plans to move back to the United States, debating lightly on whether California or New York City was a better place to live, and all Aldon had said was that both sounded wonderful, he'd be happy with either, and yes, a foursome with Gerry also sounded quite excellent.

Mind-to-mind, she had asked John to break into Aldon's mind, but John had examined Aldon for a moment before refusing. Aldon was distracted and worried, but that was no reason for John to break his mental privacy—if Francesca wanted to know what was wrong, she would have to ask him directly. But Aldon would never tell her. There were things that Aldon didn't think were appropriate for her to hear, and whether it was because he was worried about how they reflected on him, or whether they were disturbing, violent, or something else, she didn't know.

She wondered how he could think that anything was inappropriate for her to hear after the second Rosier Place strike. Francesca had been there too—she had been the one to pull the trigger on a fireball that had claimed some half-dozen or more lives. She had killed too, and she had seen the aftermath of that attack. She might have cried over it, but she had done it, and she would do it again to protect Rosier Place. He could tell her more, if he so chose, but he didn't.

John might not have broken into Aldon's mind for her, but he was still with her and Alex when they ransacked Aldon's liquor stash earlier that night. Aldon had had that _look _on his face throughout most of the day, the one that Francesca recognized from the end of the Welsh mission, when he had gotten a bottle of brandy and polished off most of it before Francesca had taken it away and sent him to bed.

The cabinet had been kept in rooms that she had never seen, rooms that didn't look as though they belonged to Aldon at all. His father, she had realized when she went through the room, who apparently had a love for fine liquor, mystery novels, and Christina Blake. She left most of it alone, only taking the alcohol. Not knowing what else to do with it, she had decided to hide it in John's rooms for the night, though Alex had made a pitch for giving it to the soldiers as a token of appreciation. Francesca didn't feel like she had the authority to give Aldon's liquor away though, so into John's rooms they had gone.

She lay in bed for far too long, rolling over and over in search for a comfortable position. Nothing felt comfortable; she might have been snuggled in Aldon's silk sheets and heavy, woven duvet, but the bed felt empty and cold with only her worry for company.

She had to have fallen asleep at some hour though, because she woke when he came in—it was still dark, but her limbs felt heavy, and she had the well-rested feeling that she had when she had slept deeply and well. Aldon was a shadow in the doorway, moving slowly. Even if she couldn't see his face, she knew that if she could see it, it would be frozen in a rictus of unfeeling, which was what he wore when he was feeling too much.

One look at the window showed that it wasn't yet dawn. The sky was grey, so they were close to dawn, but the sun had not yet broken the horizon. But Aldon hadn't slept at all, and the stiff, robotic way that he moved worried her. He sat down heavily on the bed, letting out a long and heavy sigh, and Francesca couldn't help it.

She sat up and reached out one hand to him, resting it on his arm. "Aldon?" she asked, and her voice was soft, thick with sleep. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he looked at her, and Francesca knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was not okay. His golden eyes were dark in pain, and she fell silent. She didn't know how to ask these kinds of questions, not in the face of that much pain, not when Aldon had always been reluctant to tell her about the darker parts of his work.

But she didn't need to talk. Aldon leaned down, pressing a gentle but insistent kiss on her lips, and in that instant, she knew that Aldon needed her. He didn't want to talk, but he wanted the comfort of forgetting whatever it was that he had done, if only for a little while. She responded, letting out a small moan of satisfaction, the exact noise that she had learned from the past few months that he loved to hear from her, and she let him push her back down into his bed.

His waistcoat came off first, the buttons slippery under her fingers. It was quickly followed by his tie, his shirt, and his trousers. Her nightgown, a soft cotton pink, came off next, and he settled his weight on top of her with the ease of practice. His lips pressed on hers, his hands moving to feel her breasts, and his thumbs brushed against her nipples. She let out another soft cry, another noise that she knew that he liked to hear, and shifted her knees to hug his hips and give him access to all of her.

It would surprise many people, she thought, to know that Aldon was for the most part a gentle and careful lover. Most of their lovemaking had been dominated by Aldon's soft questions—his confirmations that she was happy, that she was enjoying herself, that she wanted to continue, and that he wasn't hurting her. Sex had often been about pleasing her, though Francesca's greatest enjoyment in sex that she had found so far was in pleasing him. She liked to wear the clothes that he liked the see, she liked making the noises that he liked to hear, and she liked it when he rolled her over in bed and made it clear what he wanted from her and how he wanted it. She liked it when he made the decisions about their lovemaking, though Aldon's primary concern had always been her pleasure.

This was different. Aldon was silent; there were none of his usual questions. He took her roughly, in one solid thrust, and he only pressed an apologetic kiss on the side of her neck when she gasped in surprise. He needed her, and Francesca wanted to give. She clung to him, moving with him as he set the pace and moved with a desperate ferocity.

It wasn't long—most of sex, as Francesca had learned through experimentation in the past few months, was foreplay anyway, which Aldon normally took his time in doing but hadn't this time. Even without foreplay though, Francesca found herself responding. Aldon did know what he was doing, at least with her, and it was only a few minutes before she was whimpering his name under him, and he was shuddering over her.

He panted for a moment, before pulling out and kissing her softly on her lips. Grabbing his wand, he cleaned them both up quickly with a wordless charm before sliding into bed beside her and arranging her so that her back was against his chest. His arm was tight around her middle, and his head was buried in the crook of her neck.

It took a moment for Francesca to realize that she wasn't imagining the quiet sniffles that were coming from him, nor the wetness on her back. Aldon was crying, but he didn't want to talk about it.

XXX

"…as such, Draco Malfoy died in the line of duty. I would very much appreciate if a proper obituary could be prepared for him, with all the associated accolades and honours," Aldon finished, setting his completed report down on the table and sliding it across to James, who was seated closest to him. "I would also much appreciate the assistance of Harry and Sirius in preparing correspondence to Lady Malfoy in Switzerland. As his direct superior, I of course bear the responsibility of informing her, and I would prefer to be able to do so long before the news is blasted through the _Daily Prophet_."

He was perfectly dry-eyed and collected as he reported to the group, Lina noted. Whatever might be said, her foster son was good at compartmentalizing his emotions. The only signs of the past couple of days were the dark circles under his eyes, and the slow, too deliberate way that he moved.

The circle around the table listened, with expressions ranging from stern thoughtfulness to open worry. With Alastor gone, Lina had pulled his protégé, Benjamin "Faith" Levstein from Queenscove, but he was much quieter and more considerate than Alastor had been. Across the table from her and Ben were James, Sirius, and Archie, while Aldon sat alone at the end of the table, giving his report. Lina already knew the content of it, but the other four men around the table craned their necks to read Aldon's flowing script.

Lina had never thought she would say it, but she missed Alastor's acerbic personality. Alastor Moody had been a heavy counterweight to her. Whereas Lina knew war, knew how to plan attacks and warfare, Alastor truly had lived according to his chosen attributes: righteousness, charity and sacrifice. After a Service Year in the Korean War, he had sworn himself to a future of ideals, and he had never acted as mercenary since. By contrast, Lina had chosen attributes in memory, to remind herself of what she had done and to warn her against her most impulsive instincts. Alastor had been a very different kind of Stormwing than Lina, and indeed to most Stormwings.

There would never be anyone like him. Alastor could always be counted on to review Lina's plans with a critical eye and tell her exactly and in plain language where she had gone wrong, and she felt the loss without him there. Ben was good, but he wasn't Alastor's equal, either in personality or in experience. Without Alastor, Lina had to check her plans over thrice as often, trying to think of her plans as he would have done. Patience, he would have said. Too dangerous, he would have said. Constant vigilance, he would have yelled.

She couldn't help but smile slightly at the last.

"I don't know about Harry," Archie said finally, the scrape of his chair breaking her reverie as he pulled away from the report and threw Aldon a concerned look. "She's not really in a condition to help, I don't think. Draco was her best friend, and she feels like it's her failure that they couldn't rescue him. She's been crying half the night, and then she went to Queenscove first thing this morning to see Leo. I'll speak with her though—she might have a few words she wants worked in anyway."

"Do we have a direct connection to Switzerland?" Sirius asked, looking around the table. "A conversation may be better. I know we had a communication orb through Francesca and John, but with John in Britain…"

"We don't have a communication orb connection, no," Aldon confirmed. "I understand from John and Francesca that a message could be passed through Muggle telephone, but in my view this would be less sympathetic. We owe Lady Malfoy the news and our condolences directly, not through American or Canadian intermediaries. We should have a few days. Voldemort will be incensed that someone managed to execute Draco within Malfoy Manor, and he will first be preoccupied with flushing out the culprit. I can also have my informants within the _Daily Prophet_ delay the publications."

Sirius nodded, looking away. "He was so young," he commented, his tone only resigned. "Not even seventeen, if I remember rightly."

"Too young to die in a war. They're all too young to even be fighting in a war." James sighed, then he leaned forward to look at Aldon with a stern expression in his blue eyes. "What I don't understand is how this could have happened. This mission was an incredible risk—not just for Malfoy, but for the entire alliance. Malfoy was your second-in-command. You had to know the risk of sending him in, and yet you didn't consult with anyone in the military branch?"

"That is correct," Aldon said, straightening his spine and looking James in the eye. "I did know the risk, and we did not consult with the military branch. The strike was primarily an extraction mission, which has often historically fallen within my area, and we had done other extraction missions without consulting the military branch. However, given the target location, I ought to have consulted with you. For personal reasons, I did not want to. I did not want anyone to stop us. I erred in my judgement. Should you wish to court-martial me for the offence, I will not defend myself. It was my error that resulted in Draco's death."

Lina suppressed a sigh and exchanged a warning look with James and Sirius, who seemed taken aback by Aldon's reaction. For someone who knew Aldon less well, his blunt acceptance of responsibility must have seemed odd. She, however, knew better. Aldon was looking for punishment, but any punishment would be an implicit acknowledgement that Aldon was supposed to be supervised by someone else and would detract from his own responsibility. Raking him over the coals would only make him feel better. The decisions that Aldon made had consequences, just as their decisions did, and she would rather he sit and stew over them on his own.

"This is poor judgement and a poor decision, not a court-martial offence," she said calmly, staring at him with a pointed reminder. Aldon was her foster son, and he would see her meaning. She was not about to tell James and Sirius that he had approached her, and that she had advised him against the action before it started, and they would keep that information between themselves. "You are our spymaster. Many, if not most, extraction, infiltration, and sabotage missions fall squarely within your responsibility, and there was no requirement that you consult with us. However, as a commander in your own right, you carry your mistakes as we do ours. Counted in lives they might be, but they are ours to carry."

Another Stormwing had once said the something very similar to her in her Service Year. Much as she had had done at that time, Aldon winced and said nothing. How a child that wasn't even hers had come to be so much like her, Lina had no idea.

"Personal reasons," James said, breaking the awkward silence and bringing the conversation back to where it had been. He was frowning, and his blue eyes were disapproving. "What personal reasons could you have had that caused you to take these kinds of risks? I think I speak for all of us in saying that this was out of character for you."

Aldon cleared his throat, looking away. "A part of Malfoy's mission was to extract the Rookwoods. The Rookwoods…" Aldon paused, and looked back at the table of military commanders and advisors. "The Rookwoods are my closest childhood friends. Edmund Rookwood was—is—my best friend. Not unlike Sirius is to you, I am given to understand. Edmund was trapped in Voldemort's camp at the time of the coup and has been serving as… well, as a double agent since the Welsh genocide."

"Edmund and Alesana Rookwood were recently convicted of high treason for failing to provide relevant information on the defences of Rosier Place for Voldemort's last strike." Sirius caught on quickly, though his eyebrow was raised in thought. "They're being sentenced later this week. The _Daily Prophet_ has predicted execution orders, with no small amount of relish, and I don't think anyone really expects a different result."

"That is correct." Aldon nodded. "I had hoped to save him. Draco had hoped to save his fiancée, and to claim the manor. I was—blinded by my desire to save Ed, and I took unacceptable risks."

"Would you mind reserving your self-flagellation for another time?" Lina asked, keeping her tone purposely bored—if Aldon kept at this, the other commanders would have concerns about his competence and would suggest that he be relieved of responsibility, if only for a short time. If Lina cared less for him, she would have let them, but relieving Aldon of command would leave him spiralling and the resistance without the strong spymaster critical for success. Aldon would have to get used to carrying the weight of Malfoy's death eventually, and there was no time like the present. "It's rather unseemly and tiresome to hear you do it publicly. Draco Malfoy is dead. What is done is done, and there is nothing that any of us can do to alter the past. The better question is, where do we move forward from here? What did Voldemort find out from Malfoy? What did Malfoy know?"

Aldon nodded slowly, drawing in a deep breath. He had prepared for this question, Lina knew—it was his responsibility, and he had been up early this morning preparing his report and analysis.

"This is in the report on page four," Aldon started, "but Malfoy knew rather a lot. His knowledge primarily related to the identity of various of my informants, stretching as deep as Voldemort's inner circle, but he also knew many of our supply chains and contacts in Diagon Alley and the Guilds. He had also memorized about a third of our runic short-codes, for his most well-frequented safehouses, including Potter Place, Rosier Place, and the Warren. Malfoy was not privy to the plans for the Malfoy Manor strike, since they were never pertinent to his work, so our future plans should be safe. "

"And have you any idea how much of this information Voldemort could have obtained?" Ben asked, the first time he had spoken in the meeting. His voice was quiet, filled with understanding. "I appreciate that this is difficult for you, but you had to have gotten some idea from your informants who told you that he had been captured, or from the rescue attempt. Or even from the result of your execution order."

"I cannot confirm anything," Aldon said, and his voice cracked slightly, leaving off the dry and emotionless tone that he had used throughout his report. "But one of my informants did advise that he had managed to downplay and intercept anything Draco might have revealed prior to my message received yesterday around ten in the morning. I know of nothing since that time. I only received a confirmation that my execution order was carried out this morning, without details."

"So, informant identities, supply contacts and Portkey Hub codes." James sighed heavily, taking his glasses off and bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "This is not ideal, especially at this stage of the war."

Not ideal was an understatement. Lina snorted in appreciation.

"The informants are my responsibility," Aldon said, and his voice was almost sharp. "I will handle the possible risk to my informants."

"The Portkey Hub short-codes can also be handled pretty easily," Archie said, already making a note of it. "We can't change them, can we? But we always know where they're coming from, so we can just send a bulletin to all safehouses, and phrase it as a reminder not to allow any transits unless it's from a fellow safehouse or a known transit. With Terminal M being held by the ICW peacekeepers, Voldemort doesn't have access to any Hubs, so the runic short-codes barely matter."

"The supply chain contacts though…" Sirius sighed. "That's a problem. We rely on our Guild and Diagon Alley contacts—Harry and Leo don't steal all our supplies. They also buy and trade for a lot of them and they have a good relationship in those communities. Guilds and shopkeepers would rather have us buy their goods than give it up to a requisition order from Voldemort. If they've been given up, they're in a much more dangerous position, and we need to think about what we say to them. We can't tell them nothing."

"I don't know if it's a good idea to give them any details," Archie said, thinking it over with a worried look. "First, I don't think they care about the details—second, we're already going to look careless, having let the information out, aren't we? These people trusted us, so what can we do to protect them?"

"Not that careless," Ben spoke up, with a shake of his head. "Things happen in wartime. The mere fact that they were trading to us under the table doesn't necessarily mean that we were careless. I am sure that Voldemort has his spies and informants too, and the Guilds and shopkeepers themselves can also be careless. If need be, we could always bring them into the safehouses—Queenscove for one has space—but doing so would likely cut off our own supply chains."

"I do not think we can hide what happened." Aldon shut his eyes for a brief moment as he thought. "Draco Malfoy's death will be sent through the _Daily Prophet_—not today, not tomorrow, but I give it a week. We can keep it simple. Voldemort captured a resistance spy, who knew their identities. We do not think he revealed their identities, but we recommend they redouble their defences. That's all."

"And we should accelerate the plans for the Malfoy Manor." James looked around the table. "If we can do it safely, we should. The potential loss of our supply chains is serious, but it's more a long-term harm than it is a short-term harm. Sirius, what are our stocks like right now?"

"We've made huge gains since the Ministry and Southwold attacks," Sirius replied, picking up the thread easily. "We have nearly all of the incendiaries that we think we'd need, and Francesca and her unit received the final shipment of materiel they need for ACDs. They've interviewed and tested everyone in the army who has indicated that they might want an ACD, and she has estimated two weeks for production. Ideally, we would be able to give everyone at least a week to train on it, if not more. But what about Voldemort's other manors? We can't forget about those—I would hate for Voldemort to run from Malfoy Manor only to set himself up worse than ever in, say, the Lestrange ancestral estates."

"He'll always be able to escape and set himself up somewhere else." Lina scowled. "Overseas, at absolute worst. I can see an argument for destroying or cutting off the most valuable of his possible bolt holes, the manors that are defensible that are not presently in use, but even that would be a stretch. Unless he flees to them, they're positions of no value, and they aren't worth the resources."

"Voldemort remains weak right now," Ben noted quietly. "He hasn't recovered from the Rosier Place, Ministry of Magic, or Southwold strikes. Even if he does flee, he will be in an even weaker position at whatever new manor home he takes. If we follow through quickly, it may simply end as a clean-up operation. We should strike him sooner rather than later, before he can widen his conscription pool or better train his new recruits."

"We do have a little bit of time," Aldon said, tilting his head slightly. "As I said previously, he is distracted. The loss of Draco, right under his nose, demonstrates that he doesn't have full power even where he is strongest. He will be focused on internal matters for some time, at least two weeks, and we can slow his preparations through sabotage as well. Also, if I can use half the incendiaries that Sirius is compiling, I may be able to do something about the likeliest of Voldemort's bolt holes."

"_Half_ the incendiaries?" Sirius shot him a look. "That would take us at least four weeks to rebuild, if not more."

"You need at least three for the ACDs and the training anyway," Aldon noted calmly. "An extra week of breathing room is advisable in case the ACDs are delayed, and if not, there is an extra week for training. Lestrange Manor is the likeliest manor for Voldemort to flee too should Malfoy Manor be lost. Indeed, we should be glad that he has enough pride that he could not bring himself to abandon Malfoy Manor; as I understand it, all the Lestranges are on his side, from the Lord, the Lady, and through the Heir. He would be in a stronger position at Lestrange Manor than he is at Malfoy Manor, but I can bring it down."

James studied him, his eyebrows fixed in a frown. "Another dangerous and risky mission?"

"Not so dangerous as my last. I simply need the incendiaries because, if I recall rightly, Lestrange Manor is large and made of stone. I do not—" Aldon paused, picking his words. "My informant who will handle this is well aware of the target and its defences, and he has ready access to the manor. He will be at little risk, and even if he were captured, there is little that he can tell that Voldemort does not already know. He has been embedded deeply in Voldemort's organization since the beginning of the war."

There was a moment of silence, as Lina thought it over. "Sirius, I suggest giving the incendiaries to Aldon, then we can aim for a strike in four to six weeks. Full-scale, with the intent of capturing Malfoy Manor and killing Voldemort. No fixed date to be scheduled, but the troops should be ready to move out on under twelve hours of notice, four weeks from now. We can work out the details closer to the strike date—we need the most up to date maps that we can get from the shifters, as well as a plan to handle the wards and then the ground defences before we get to Voldemort and his army themselves. Is that agreeable?"

There was a moment of silence, in which they all looked at each other, and then James nodded, a grim look passing over his face. "I think that means we all agree. We can all hope that it's the last strike we will need to plan."

XXX

Pansy was numb. She had been numb since the morning she had killed Draco. He had looked—well, he looked bad enough that she had had no difficult convincing herself that killing him had been the right thing to do. She couldn't get him out. She simply couldn't, not past the dozens of guards that blocked the way. It had been hard enough slipping down into the cellars to see him, and had she been anyone other than Pandora Parkinson, she thought someone would have stopped her.

No one did. She was Pandora Parkinson, back in Voldemort's favour, and no one dared.

She remembered Aldon's Patronus coming for her. She had been in her rooms, which had once been the Lady Malfoy's, and she had for once been alone. Pandora had been upset, and even more so because there was a rumour that Bellatrix was putting together the ingredients for a Love Potion, but the younger Lestrange had simply laughed at her when she asked him. His mother, he had informed her in a voice of deepest loathing, could not brew her way through a remedial first-year Potions course, and certainly could not brew anything as complex as a Love Potion. Pandora had believed him, but when Voldemort had not visited her that night, had instead gone to bed in high dudgeon, making plans to root out the truth the next day. Pandora's source of power of Voldemort, and she did not forget it, as much as the knowledge chafed. Pansy, however, had been all too happy to be alone.

She had known that Draco had been captured. She had known for a full day, not that there was anything she could do about it, so when Aldon's Patronus had swept into her room only an hour before dawn, she was not surprised. She had slept little, and she had slept lightly—with Draco in the manor, she hadn't been able to do anything else.

Aldon's merlin had glowed grey, not the bright white-blue of other Patronuses. She remembered sitting up and looking at it, and its silver beak popped open.

"Draco Malfoy must die," Aldon said, and his voice was not the one that Pansy remembered. Aldon had always had a laugh in his voice, whatever he said, but these words were dead and harsh. "Kill him."

The merlin dissipated after that, and Pansy had taken a deep, shaky breath and stood up. She did not know any other spies, though she knew that Aldon had to have had others and that likely they had all gotten this message. But if Draco was going to die, then she wanted—no, she needed—to see him. If he had to die, she had to be the one to see him off, because—well, she didn't want it to be a stranger. Draco deserved someone better than a stranger to send him off to the next world, if there was a next world.

She wished there was a next world. It was not something she had ever wished before, but the knowledge that she now lived in a world without Draco Malfoy… it was a heavier weight than she realized. There would be no after-the-war for them. There would be no grand reunion or reconciliation with Harry. There were only the few moments that she had stolen in the cellars with him before she had killed him.

The sheet of parchment that had held the runic screen she needed to cast Dark magic had been heavy in her hand. Aldon had sent it to her months ago, in the event that she needed to cast a Dark spell, but she normally kept it hidden under her mattress—she ought to have memorized and burned it months ago, but it had been a more complicated spell than she had thought it would be, so she had hidden it instead. It had been a precaution only, and Pansy had deemed it appropriate that she be a known Light witch within Voldemort's circle. Being a Light witch had kept her out of most of the torture games that others played, and now…

Now, she had a very good alibi for why she had not killed Draco Malfoy, one that Pandora grasped without Pansy having to feed anything at all to her alter-ego on the subject.

"I?" Pandora had said on the morning that the death was discovered, when pressed. A golden blonde eyebrow had arched, as she stared into Voldemort's eyes, while Pansy had lain hidden and listless in the corner of her mind she reserved for herself when her alter-ego took control. "Sir, there is a body. I am a Light witch—I kill with the Unmaking Spell, not with the Killing Curse."

"That is true," Voldemort had replied, returning the gaze and riffling through Pandora's neatly ordered mind. "But there are spells that would alter your magical form."

"I'm afraid I do not know them, sir." Pandora had said, and that was true. Pansy did not know them either. The parchment was hidden back under her mattress, and she couldn't remember the runes even if she tried. "I did not, as you know, complete my schooling."

"Ah." Voldemort had nodded, and his focus thereafter had gone on anyone and everyone else in his organization.

The days that followed were a blur. Pansy had let Pandora do as she would—Pandora, of course, had no idea that she had been in the cellars that night at all, and none of the sentries had raised the fact that they had seen Pansy awake and moving the morning of the death. Instead, after interrogating every sentry on watch, as well as most of the residents of Malfoy Manor, he had ordered every sentry on watch to be publicly flogged.

It had been a disgusting sight—even Pandora had thought so. Completely useless, a sight of terror that did more harm than good when it came to ruling. But Pandora had said nothing, discontent brewing under her skin, figuring that she would pick her battles. Ten Whip Curses were not so bad, and it was not enough for Pandora to jeopardize her little sway with Voldemort.

Pansy could not say she cared. Killing Draco might have been necessary, and she even believed that it had been the best she could do in a bad situation—but it still ached, and she found it very hard to care about anything.

Letting Pandora take control was easy. She woke as Pandora. She picked her food and ate as Pandora. She went through each day as Pandora, Pandora's seething anger a far better feeling than the emptiness with which she was otherwise filled. Pandora made the decisions, Pandora lived and breathed and acted while Pansy lay numb in the corner of her mind that she had carved out for herself and watched. Pandora flirted with Voldemort and warred with Bellatrix over his affections, and Pandora went to bed with Voldemort. She slept as Pandora, and while she didn't dream as either herself or as Pandora, she knew that she was more Pandora than herself now. That was something she needed to fight, but it was so hard to gather the mental energy to plan, to plot, to influence. It was easier just to watch.

Ten days later, she was watching when Voldemort tried the Rookwoods again. He had tried them before, shortly after the second Rosier Place attack, but this time was different.

They had been with Draco at the time he was captured. At the first trial, Edmund had pled ignorance, and no one seriously believed that Alesana had known anything at all. If there had been anything resembling actual justice, they would never have been convicted—unfortunately, anything like actual justice had long before gone out the window. Even before Voldemort's coup, the courts had been rigged to give the result the Ministry wanted. Indeed, it could have been argued that Voldemort had made things more fair, and not less: without the nobility, the Rookwoods had been unable to invoke the privileges they would have been able to use previously to secure an acquittal based on their noble allies, and not on merit.

This time, the Rookwoods had been with a resistance spy at the time of their capture. There was very little that they could argue in response.

The Court of Justice, pinning down one end of Diagon Alley, looked no different than it did when Lord Riddle and the Wizengamot ruled Wizarding Britain. Other than the Rookwoods' very prominent trial a few weeks ago, Voldemort had shown no interest in the place. It was still decorated with statues and images of Justice, who looked far less imposing in portrait and stone than she had in person. The statues and portraits could not capture the sheer power that the Incarnation had worn, the waves of which had spread and held everyone transfixed in the courtroom.

Even Voldemort did not have that power. Indeed, the first time that he had come to court, he had, under the pretense of examining the room, attempted to climb onto the topmost dais. He hadn't been able to cross the uppermost threshold, and while he had played it off well, neither Pansy nor Pandora were fooled. He had been upset at his inability to sit on the topmost dais, lording over the proceedings as the physical embodiment of Justice.

Edmund and Alice looked pitiful, sitting at the defence table. They had counsel, a tired-looking man with watery blue eyes, but Pansy neither recognized him nor did she think much of him. He had put forward a good argument at the last trial, but the jury had been rigged. They had known the jury would be rigged, and it was a unanimous vote for conviction. They were in their best robes, Edmund in sombre black while Alesana was in a muted blue. By the expressions on their faces, that they hadn't much, if any, hope left. They were up for execution, and they knew it. Everyone knew it. The only question was the manner.

Pansy should say something. She should do something. Edmund and Alesana Rookwood were no different than most of the people who sat in the courtroom, awaiting a final hearing and final sentence. The Rookwoods had made decisions that seemed right at the time, only to find the world shifting around them, their once-sensible decisions wrong in retrospect. No one had predicted the coup—no one could have predicted where they would stand today. The Rookwoods only had the misfortunate to have ties with a known revolutionary. She just didn't know what she was supposed to say.

In front of her, at the prosecution table, Prosecutor Umbridge was going through a long scroll of parchment. Voldemort's regime had done her well. Spotting a kindred spirit McNabb had both rescued her stagnating career, and promoted her quickly through the Ministry ranks. Dolores Jane Umbridge now directed the Department of Justice, and the only reason that she now stood in the courtroom was to underscore the severity of the crime of betraying Voldemort.

The registrar at the front of the room, sitting on the lowest dais, stood. "All rise," the woman intoned, her voice bland and wooden. "Hear ye, hear ye, all those having business in Justice's court, come forward and be heard. You may be seated."

Pansy sat back down, watching as Lady Amelia Bones walked into the room, her robes cleanly pressed and her face a mask devoid of all emotion. She knew that judge saw Voldemort in her courtroom; he was impossible to miss, sitting in the front row behind Prosecutor Umbridge. Beside her, as it happened, and Pandora glanced over to see a broadly satisfied look on his face. The end was a given—the only question was how bad it would be.

Lady Bones showed no sign of having seen him. Her hazel eyes ignored him entirely, resting for a moment on the Rookwoods at the defence table.

"Prosecutor Umbridge," she said, turning back to the squat witch. Her voice was a flat monotone—not something that anyone could raise a complaint over, but that clearly showed her own disinterest, if not disapproval, of the whole process. "I understand that we are here for a further guilty plea and sentencing submissions with regards to the Rookwoods."

"That's correct," Umbridge said, high-pitched and fluttery, as she stood. "Since the conviction, the Rookwoods were caught breaching their imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, in the presence of Draco Lucius Malfoy, a known resistance agitator. The prosecution is, accordingly, further charging Edmund and Alesana Rookwood with one count each of breaching their imprisonment with the intent of escape. I do expect guilty pleas, Your Honour, then we may proceed with the sentencing as planned."

Lady Bones glanced at the Rookwoods again, her expression inscrutable. "Mr. Fairfield," she said. "Do you concur?"

The barrister barely stood. "Prosecutor Umbridge is correct, Your Honour. My clients intend to enter a guilty plea on the new charges."

There wasn't much they could have argued otherwise, so Pansy could appreciate the decision. It wouldn't make a difference in the end result, so the Rookwoods had chosen not to make matters any worse by forcing another painful trial on the merits.

"Very well," Lady Bones replied, gesturing to the clerk sitting on the dais below her. "Then let's get on with it, and then sentencing on both this matter and the treason charges."

The clerk stood, her expression carefully blank. "Mr. Edmund Rookwood, Ms. Alesana Rookwood, you are each hereby charged with breaching your imprisonment with the intent to escape. To wit, on the twenty-eighth of May, you were arrested outside your prison on the grounds of Malfoy Manor in the company of a rebel agent, Draco Lucius Malfoy. How do you plead?"

Edmund stood. "We plead guilty, Your Honour."

"You may plead guilty for yourself, but your wife?" Lady Bones said, looking over at Alesana.

"Guilty, Your Honour." Alesana's voice was small, and Edmund had to support her in standing.

Lady Bones studied them both for a moment. "I accept both of your pleas," she said finally. "Sentencing submissions?"

Prosecutor Umbridge stood. "On the twentieth of May, Mr. and Mrs. Rookwood were convicted of high treason for their actions with respect to their long-time associate, the former Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. To keep matters brief, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rookwood deemed it fit to report their associate's radical tendencies, and since beginning of the civil unrest, actively worked to conceal the extent of the former Lord Rosier's activities. These actions ultimately culminated in a horrific attack on those sent to arrest the former Lord Rosier for his rebellion, resulting in the loss of more than fifty Aurors.

"Since their own arrest, the Rookwoods have shown no remorse. Rather than entering a plea of guilty for the initial charges of treason, they forced this court, and the families of the victims of the former Lord Rosier's attack, through a lengthy trial." Prosecutor Umbridge riffled through the parchment on her table, and finding a bound roll, walked to the clerk to hand them off. "I am handing to Your Honour a collection of victim impact statements from the families of the deceased Aurors. I do not think I need to go into detail but suffice it to say that the loss of their mothers, father, brothers, sisters and children has been difficult for them."

Lady Bones glanced at the roll of parchment, but she didn't open it. "I will take the victim impact statements into consideration in my judgement."

Umbridge nodded in satisfaction. "Further, the actions of the Rookwoods after their convictions speaks volumes. They did not accept the judgement of this Court, and instead attempted to escape Justice by fleeing from prison in the company of another known rebel, Draco Lucius Malfoy. These are not the actions of those who feel remorse for their actions, and I submit that the subsequent escape be considered an aggravating factor on sentencing. All things considered, the prosecution submits that there can be no sentence other than death, in the traditional method."

There was a storm of whispers through the room, and Pansy struggled to pull herself together, to do something, to _influence_ something. She had to do something. She couldn't just sit here, frozen in numbness, doing nothing.

The traditional methods were barbaric. Muggles had not come to the conclusion that witches were to be burnt at the stake from nothing—indeed, burning at the stake was exactly how an execution by traditional methods appeared to Muggles. The actual rite was an unbinding of magic, a release of the person's magical core to the wild, but the side effect was that the person themselves were then consumed in their own magical fire. The barbarism had become ever more evident when Muggles had adopted the method to burn alive men and women who were merely accused of being magical, and had been replaced by a simple Killing Curse shortly after the institution of the Statute of Secrecy.

She couldn't let this happen. But what could she do to change things?

"Reply submissions, Mr. Fairfield?"

The tired-looking man on the other side of the room stood. "Indeed, Your Honour. The Rookwoods plead for the clemency of this court. We would note the following factors that we submit ought to be considered for consideration. First, Edmund Rookwood served this Ministry as an Auror himself, until he took an injury that rendered him unfit for further combat. After his injury, Mr. Rookwood served this Ministry as a liaison with his childhood friend, Lord Aldon Rosier, and you have all heard his and Mrs. Rookwood's testimony that they had had a falling out with their friend over the past year and were unaware of much of his activities—"

"This is not a time to retry the case, Mr. Fairfield," Lady Bones interrupted sharply, a warning in her voice. "Continue with the factors relevant on sentencing only, please."

Fairfield nodded. "In response to my friend's submissions, execution by traditional methods was banned in the Act Banning Execution by Magical Fire passed by the Wizengamot in 1704. Execution by traditional methods is outside the jurisdiction of this court to give—"

Voldemort had stood beside her, and Lady Bones halted the defence counsel by holding up a hand. "Sir," she said, acknowledging him, and there was nothing in her voice to suggest that Voldemort was doing anything outside the permissible by the court.

"The 1704 Act Banning Execution by Magical Fire is suspended," Voldemort said, a smile playing on his face. "Wizarding Britain is under martial law—accordingly, by order today, I have deemed it necessary that such execution is permissible in the circumstances, for the stability of the state."

Lady Bones studied him for a moment. "I see," she said coolly, and she turned back to Fairfield. "I thank the Ministry for their comments. Go on, Mr. Fairfield."

Fairfield coughed—by the expression his face, it was clear that he hadn't expected any other response. "In that case, Mr. Rookwood would like to advise this Honourable Court that his wife is with child and pleads the clemency of this court to delay any such execution until the birth of their child. Such has been permitted throughout our common legal history; in 1541, the execution of Lord Burwell was delayed for such a reason, and again in 1612, for the execution of Lord Bradenton. Cases are rarer in our recent history, but capital crimes are rare, and I draw your attention to the most recent case in which this occurred in 1928, _Ministry v. Bracebridge, _where Mr. Bracebridge was granted clemency and execution was suspended until the birth of his child in 1929. The defence requests that any execution, by any means, be suspended pending the birth of the child."

"Denied," Voldemort said, his face twisting, rising to his feet again. "Wizarding Britain has no need of children of the disloyal."

Pansy had to _do _something. The courts were strung, and anyone who thought that Lady Bones would be able to do anything other than accede to Voldemort's wishes were lying to themselves. She couldn't let this go on—what was the point of everything she had done if she couldn't push at moments like these? And if Voldemort could interfere in the trial process, why couldn't she plead for clemency on their behalf? Why couldn't she throw herself at Voldemort's feet, begging him prettily in the name of the innocence of children, right here and now?

At best, it would make him reconsider, and it could buy the Rookwoods a reprieve. Aldon had to move before then. At worst, she would only make a fool of herself. She had to do something.

She threw the idea at Pandora. She threw the innocence of children, and the need to _do something_ at her alter-ego.

And her alter-ego turned around and looked back at her.

_Ah_, Pandora said, with a raise of her familiar, perfectly manicured eyebrow. _There you are, Pansy_. _A pleasure to meet you, at long last_.

Pansy swallowed, staring at the other girl. Herself, and not-herself, all at once.

_Don't worry about what we look like on the outside,_ Pandora said, wrinkling her delicate nose in distaste. _I have it well in hand. You want me to beg prettily on my knees for the Rookwoods? I hate that idea, and I don't like to beg. I don't even know the Rookwoods—or do I?_

Pansy was stunned. _I—I don't—_

_You don't._ Pandora sighed in mock disappointment, rolling her eyes. _I want to know what I am, Pansy. I want to know what you've hidden from me. I am you—_

_A part of me! _Pansy interrupted. _Only a part, and the part I—_

_The part that you deny existed, _Pandora replied flatly. _The part you like and hate in equal measure. Let's speak frankly, my dear Pansy. You enjoy being me. You always wanted a world where you didn't have to manoeuvre or manipulate to get ahead, where you could be called Pandora instead of just Pansy, a diminutive. I am your identity who is allowed to do such things. But don't you see? I would never beg on my knees for the Rookwoods. _You_ would beg on your knees for the Rookwoods, but I—I would stand up, and I would fight for them, if I wanted to say anything at all. Why the Rookwoods, anyway?_

Pandora was right, and Pansy knew it. Pandora was not the sort of woman who would plead on her knees to get ahead, and Pandora had never knelt and begged for forgiveness, not even after being subject to torture disguised as punishment. Pandora would have kept fighting because she valued nothing more than her own freedom—her freedom to act, her freedom to speak her mind, her freedom to be whoever she chose to be and to do whatever she chose to do.

Pandora, left to her own devices, would have abandoned Voldemort the second it became clear that he would bind her voice tighter than anyone had ever done before. She had only stayed because there were no other good options in the current environment.

_The Rookwoods are our friends,_ Pansy said, looking away. _I can't tell you more, not with _him_ beside us. We don't have the Occlumency for it._

There was a pause, and Pandora nodded. _We're not who he thinks we are, are we? And you can't tell me, else we would be in more danger._

_Yes,_ Pansy agreed. _You can't know._

Her other self tilted her head in thought, while Pansy panicked. She was the control personality—Pandora was a part of her, but she shouldn't have been able to talk to her or fight with her. Pandora was the front, but Pansy was the control. Pansy had always been able to retake control of herself and her body before, but she knew without trying that Pandora would now block her and fight back. She didn't know what she had done, nor how to fix it. She didn't even have the beginnings of an idea on how to fix it.

_What we're hiding, _Pandora said finally, her blue eyes only curious. _Does it lead to a better future than the one Voldemort promises?_

_I think so_, Pansy replied slowly. _What could be worse?_

_I just want to be free._ Pandora looked away, back out at the frozen courtroom. Pansy had no idea what was happening out there now—it seemed like Lady Bones was, with no small amount of well-hidden anger, was acquiescing to Voldemort. _I want to speak freely and without fear, and to be respected for my words and not how I say them. I don't want to have to cajole and manipulate and seduce people to get what I want. I want to argue for it, or to win what I want through my own merit. I don't want anyone except myself controlling my future. Does your future promise us that?_

Pansy chewed on her bottom lip. _It has a better chance of giving us that future than Voldemort does. Voldemort only wants us when we give him, or when we do, what he wants._

_I see. _Pandora nodded once, decisive. _Very well._ _Go back to your hiding place, Pansy, and keep your secrets. I will handle this. I will demand answers from you—later. After Voldemort is dead and gone._

_But the Rookwoods— _Pansy scrabbled for control, trying to force her body into listening to her, into tossing herself on her knees before Voldemort to beg for clemency. She could plead on behalf of the child, that was something that she could do, couldn't she?

_Ah, ah. _Pandora blocked her, throwing her off her body's controls with a rude mental shove. _You know as well as I do that Alesana Rookwood is not pregnant. She has seen the bad end of the wand a few too many times in the past few months to possibly sustain a pregnancy. Edmund Rookwood is desperate, and worse yet, he is an even worse Occlumens than we apparently are. There is no point in begging on our knees. It would only cast suspicion on us because we have never shown an interest the Rookwoods, nor any particular care for children. Why the sudden change in personality, Voldemort will ask, and then he'll be in here with us. There is nothing we can do for the Rookwoods._

_But it could buy them time—_

_Not with Voldemort's Legilimency. _Pandora shook her head. _He knows they're lying. This is just his amusement for the day, and the conclusion is foregone. If you can't handle it, then don't watch._

Pandora motioned her away, and Pansy found herself thrown back into the comfortable and hidden corner of her mind where she usually lingered, waiting and watching.

Without Pandora's cooperation, waiting and watching would be all she could do.

XXX

"Lestrange."

Caelum didn't recognize the voice, nor did he look up from the Sopophorous Bean that he was chopping for a sleeping draught. Some nights were better than others, but there was nothing worse than a sleepless night when he didn't have any on hand. "What?"

"Voldemort wishes to see you."

"About what?" He swept the chopped Sopophorous Bean onto the flat of his blade, and then into his steaming cauldron.

"About—" The man hesitated, and then he coughed. "About the spells for the Rookwood execution."

"And why would I know anything about them?" He stirred the mixture in his cauldron quickly, seven strokes clockwise, then he leaned over to check the fire. It was hot enough, so he just needed to wait for the Potion to heat through, then to add the powdered asphodel petals and essence of nettle. After that, it would just need to simmer for some ten minutes, then he could bottle it. He had made enough to buy himself a week of peace, at least.

"Lady Lestrange—" The man cut himself off sharply as Caelum turned to glare at him. Darlian, he thought the man was called. Not one of the soldiers he knew well, and one that had done well in staying out of Voldemort's way. "Your honoured mother reported that she had sent you to Durmstrang to learn such valuable skills, and that you would know."

Caelum snorted. "The bitch lied. I know no such thing."

No doubt she was trying to use him to score points again. His Durmstrang education was one that she frequently bragged about, as if a foreign, four-generations-pure education was somehow superior to any other. Caelum's classes had been filled with the same idiots as he was sure Hogwarts had been filled with, and there was no reason why he would know an obscure, ancient execution ritual. The primary difference, as far as he could tell, was that his education had been in Russian and not in English.

"Be as that may…" Darlian said, Caelum's language having no effect on him whatsoever. "I have been sent to fetch you and cannot leave until I have brought you to Voldemort."

Caelum scowled, looking down at his brew. A touch of his core showed that the solution was hot enough, and he swept in the powdered asphodel petals and the essence of nettle. He had absolutely no interest in going, not least because he did not care to have any involvement whatsoever with the Rookwood executions, but if His Imperial Psychopath demanded him then he had little choice. He would simply have to find a way to tell the madman that no, he didn't know the rituals involved. He could imply that his mother was a liar and a fool while he went at it, too.

But he had to finish this potion first. "Ten minutes, Darlian, and then I will go."

Darlian nodded in agreement, and without asking permission, took a seat near the entrance to Caelum's makeshift lab. Caelum fought a grimace—evidently, there would be no slipping out without seeing Lord Megalomaniac tonight. Darlian was more intelligent than he let on, Caelum suspected, which was why he had been careful to conceal such before their mutual Lord-who-was-not-a-Lord. The less he was involved, the more likely he would survive unscathed. Caelum didn't have such a choice, whether it be Rosier on one side or his mad bitch of a mother on the other.

He should find a way to get Darlian in trouble. No sense in not sharing the pain.

Ten minutes later, Caelum followed Darlian through Malfoy Manor. The Manor was simultaneously more crowded, and more empty, than Caelum had ever known. On one hand, by bare numbers, Caelum was confident that Malfoy Manor had at least as many Aurors as they had had previously, if not more; on the other, he saw far fewer of them. They stayed out of his, and Voldemort's, way as much as humanly possible. The few sentries that he saw throughout the Manor stood sharply at attention when he passed by, though he took no notice of them whatsoever.

That pissed him off. Everyone in Malfoy Manor, Darlian included, pissed him off. They were cowards—much like the Rookwoods, they were all cowards, frozen and trapped on Voldemort's side by their own indecision and previous failure to act. And now, they were too afraid to change their beliefs, too afraid to stand up and take action, and too afraid to see if the other side might not be better. They were sheep, to be herded and to follow orders, without anything that resembled a brain among them.

Those that weren't were even worse. Those that weren't were people like his mother, who enjoyed the new regime of terror, who enjoyed the scope of power that His Imperial First Citizen gave them. Caelum hated them even more than he hated the soldiers. Crossing into the formal dining room, filled with the madman's sycophants, Caelum was immediately confronted by a sense of vicious glee that was a hundred times worse than the subtle fear and anxiety that permeated the rest of the manor. Here, people enjoyed power in all its forms, from the painful to the pleasurable. It made him sick.

His mother was already fawning over Voldemort's shoulder, a broad smile across her face, while his father was sitting at the table, examining an ancient book with a frown of concentration. The Ice Bitch was watching, an expression of extreme displeasure on her face, her arms crossed over her chest and one leg crossed over the other. Mulciber was standing in front of Lord Madman's throne, giving a report on from his daily terrorizing of Diagon Alley.

"There ought to be enough space in the square in front of the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice to host the execution," Mulciber was saying. "If we move quickly, the announcement can be made through the _Daily Prophet_ and posted and circulated throughout Diagon, Knockturn, and Craftsmen's Alleys. Non-attendance will be deemed suspicious and a cause for enquiry."

"You will never be able to enforce that." The Ice Bitch snorted. "Yes, invite thousands of people to a square for an execution, and tell them all that _not_ attending is suspicious. You cannot track them all."

"There are the identification cards, Pandora." Voldemort shot her a look of warning.

"'Sir, I simply forgot my identification card, sir!'" Pandora mimicked a high-pitched, simpering voice, with an ugly expression on her face. "'Here's a list of sixteen shopkeepers who can verify that I was in attendance!'"

"Pandora, your disapproval of this process has been noted." Voldemort's voice was hard. "I make allowances for your kind heart. If you cannot handle the details, then leave."

"Kind heart?" Pandora's eyebrow went up, and she stood. "Is that what _good sense _is called now? Sir, I counsel you one final time against this ridiculous and extreme measure. Execute them if you will, but abiding by the standards kept by Wizarding Britain over the past three hundred years, making an allowance to ensure that the Rookwoods are not with child, and using a Killing Curse would go over better on the population. You are obsessed with maintaining control—but you fail to realize, as you always have, that these disgusting shows of power lose you more control than you gain."

Lord Madman's eyes flashed, but Pandora was already storming out of the room. She had been strange recently—more openly rebellious, and less likely to accede to the maniac's desires. He would have to report it to Rosier, he thought, but then Voldemort's attention was on him.

"Sir," he bowed, focusing back on his anger, his hate. He would never have considered this execution method for the Rookwoods himself, but he thought the proposal was a fitting punishment for the Rookwoods' lack of conviction, for their lukewarm and split loyalties, even for their desperate lie that Alesana Rookwood was pregnant. "You had requested my attendance."

"Lestrange," Voldemort said, turning icy dark eyes on him. "Your mother tells me that you would be familiar with the rites for execution ritual."

"My mother is a liar who seeks your favour," Caelum retorted, shooting a glare at his mother. "I know no such thing. Aside from the fact that I am a Potioneer, Durmstrang is by education little different than Hogwarts."

"I had no expectations that you would," Voldemort replied, a small smile on his face. "Well am I aware that your mother is a fool. However, no one can deny that you are among the most intelligent in my service, and I am sure that you can figure it out. Your father has located the volume with the rite in it already, but the language is archaic and the instructions difficult. I would like you to assist in reconstructing the rite, and in carrying it out."

Caelum's jaw tightened. "I am a Potioneer," he repeated, his voice flat. "I am sure there are a dozen people more qualified."

His mother shot him a venomous look, one that Caelum returned with equal loathing. If it was an execution circle for _her_, now…

Voldemort's smile widened. "So, you would be capable of it," the monster mused. "Let me speak plainly then, Lestrange. This is an order. The Rookwoods are scheduled to be executed a week from today, and they will be made an example of the price of disobeying the Ministry of Magic. Everything must go according to plan, and I am entrusting you to ensuring that it happens."

Caelum stared at him, a thousand thoughts in mind, but the expression on Voldemort's face was implacable. This was a high honour being done to him—he would not be permitted to decline. If he tried, he had no doubt he would hear from his mother, if not also his father, both of whom were utter fanatics. If he wanted to maintain his position, and he needed to maintain his position, then he had no other choice.

He had no other choice, and he hated it.

"Very well," he said, his voice so cold that he could almost see the words coalescing in a cloud of condensation. "I will need the book, as well as the time of the scheduled execution. A week today, you said?"

Voldemort nodded, pleased. "Rodolphus, give your son the book. The execution will be at two in the afternoon, a week today."

Caelum accepted the ancient, grimy tome from his father with a grimace of distaste. "Then I have much to do. I will retire to my lab. Thank you, sir."

There was not a hint in sincerity in his thanks, but Voldemort seemed to accept it in any case. "Dismissed."

In his laboratory, he threw the hated book to the end of an empty bench, then he locked and sealed the doors. A fresh sheet of parchment came out onto the bench, along with a battered copy of _1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_.

_Falcon_, he wrote, and then he started scrabbling through his blasted ingredient dictionary for appropriate words to describe the date, time, and location of the Rookwood execution. Rosier wouldn't be able to free the Rookwoods from Malfoy Manor, but Diagon Alley might well be a different matter altogether.

XXX

_AN: And this is the chapter where I discovered that I can write sad sex. No one provided me with fluff, therefore you all get sad sex. Thanks to meek_bookworm as always, and to those of you who leave comments and reviews. It's my birthday coming up this weekend, so would love to hear from you (and always open for fanart or recursive fic as well)! See everyone in 2 weeks!_


	20. Chapter 20

Cho walked into his study, a sheet of parchment in one hand. "Aldon."

"Hmm?" Aldon looked up from his notebook, where he had been analysing the information obtained in the last week without much success. As an assistant, Cho was not the second-in-command that Draco had been. She didn't have the connections or broad knowledge of the former Wizarding Britain, nor did she have the same calculating mind that Draco had had. At first, Aldon had not wanted another assistant; they were close to the end of the war, and they had no need of more informants. He could have done the decoding work himself.

But Alex had insisted. Aldon had no idea why, but he hadn't argued. Cho was, it turned out, faster, neater, and more careful in her decoding than Draco had ever been, and there was no risk that she would need to do fieldwork. With that in mind, plus the knowledge that Cho wasn't well-connected enough in Wizarding Britain to be able to identify most of his informants by their messages alone, Aldon had opted to give her the lion's share of the decoding work while taking on all the analysis work for himself.

"Message from Vulture. _June one six, two past noon. Rook family plan death. Outside court diagonal row._ _Pansy behaviour unusual._" Cho passed him the slip of paper that she had been working on. "I thought you would want to see it right away."

Aldon nodded, his eyes running over her neat handwriting. It was easy enough to see the message that Vulture was trying to communicate. The Rookwood execution was scheduled for June sixteenth, at two in the afternoon, outside the Courts of Justice in Diagon Alley. Swallow was also behaving oddly, a fact which Aldon simultaneously understood and could do nothing about.

Swallow had been, much to Aldon's concern, the one to carry out Draco's execution order. She had sent a single message confirming that it had been done, and that was the last that Aldon had heard from her. "Nothing from Swallow?"

"No." Cho shook her head. "But I'm only halfway through today's pile. If I see something from Swallow, do you want me to bring it to you right away?"

"Please." Aldon let out a breath. "Where is Lina?"

"At Potter Place. Alex is giving a report on Voldemort's likeliest use of what few vampires he has left—his second in command Élodie and the trainees have been left in charge of the defences." Cho paused. "Do you need me to contact her?"

Aldon hesitated, looking down at the little slip of paper.

On one hand, it hadn't even been a month since Draco had died. Not even a month since the last time he had tried to mount the rescue and extraction mission for Ed and Alice, less than a month since he'd had to send an order executing his own second-in-command, and only a little more than week since Lina had forced him to examine exactly what had gone wrong with his plans, and to write his humiliating failure in cold, black ink to present to the military leaders.

Aldon knew where he had erred. He had been blinded by his own desires—he and Draco both. He had wanted his oldest friends back beside him, and he had known that Draco wanted to rescue Swallow from Malfoy Manor. The fact that Draco was the Heir Malfoy had made it easy for them to believe that their mission could, and in fact, would succeed; and they had both ignored every sign and warning that it was too much of a risk. Aldon had purposely failed to involve anyone that he thought would tell him otherwise, from Lina through Sirius and the Lord Potter. Anyone that they had roped into their mission had either believed that they had the agreement of the military branch, or they had been swept in with his and Draco's fervour. He had believed, and he had believed so much that he hadn't stopped to think about what he was doing.

He wouldn't do that again. He couldn't.

But Vulture had written him with the date and time of the execution, giving him forewarning. Vulture wouldn't have done that unless he thought Aldon could do something with that information, would he? Not for something like this, which would be cried about from the rooftops anyway—Aldon would no doubt have learned of the date and time of the execution once the news was spread through Diagon Alley, but Vulture's notice gave him early warning to plan. Vulture would have expected him to plan.

That was a logical fallacy. Vulture was a spy. Vulture's purpose was to give Aldon information. Aldon was just looking for a basis on which he could plan another rescue mission.

But this was Ed. This was his oldest friend—this was the friend that he had worked so, so hard to make like him as a child, the friend that had stood beside him throughout his time at Hogwarts, the friend who hadn't judged him in the least when it turned out that Aldon was a halfblood. This was Ed, whom Aldon still loved, because the mere fact that he now loved someone else did not mean he loved Ed any less. He might love Ed differently, but not less.

If there was a chance, any chance at all, then Aldon owed it to Ed to explore it.

Aldon took a deep breath. "No, I'll go to Potter Place myself. I'll need to talk to the Lord Potter and to Sirius."

Cho nodded. "Do you need me to carry a message to anyone?"

"Ask Francesca to watch the wards for the afternoon." Aldon stood up, folding the note and tucking it into his front chest pocket. "I will not be gone long."

The transit to Potter Place was longer than usual, and no one met him outside the Hub. The Lord Potter must have let him in, that meant, and so he headed for the kitchen. Unlike any other noble manor that he had been in, the Potters didn't have a formal dining hall, nor a ballroom, nor any large gathering place at all. Instead, Potter Place was a maze of smaller rooms set in two wings, tied together by a prominent, if unusual, tower in the centre.

Any meetings at Potter Place were held in the kitchens, around a small table that Aldon privately thought had seen better days. It was a plain, light wood, perhaps a cedar or an oak, and the varnish was wearing off in places. There were a few spots that showed ink-stains or spills from a candle, marking that the table was used as much as a worktable as it was a meal table.

"No, I'm afraid that my unit cannot cooperate with MACUSA," Alex was saying tersely, his eyes fixed on the Lord Potter. Lina, sitting beside Alex, was leaning back in her seat with an unsurprised expression on her face, while Sirius was frowning. "Their position on those with creature inheritances is… difficult, and the Order has not had a relationship with MACUSA in many years. If there is a coven hiding in Muggle London, MACUSA will simply have to handle it."

The Lord Potter ran a hand through his hair, annoyed. "And you have no flexibility to cooperate with MACUSA? None at all?"

Alex glared. "MACUSA has a kill on sight order for I and those of my kind. I would also suggest you keep Mr. Lupin out of their way—while they do not follow their domestic practice abroad, accidents can always occur."

"That means we cannot count on your assistance for the main engagement at Malfoy Manor, either." Lina sighed, but her tone was only resigned. "Since MACUSA has offered to provide backup. That's unfortunate."

"Your main engagement would be outside of my mandate in any case. We know that Voldemort does not keep his vampire allies at Malfoy Manor," Alex said, turning his head and spotting Aldon in the doorframe. "Aldon. Have you heard about the location of any remaining vampire covens?"

Aldon walked in, pulling out a chair between Lina and Alex. "I haven't, but I can confirm I have heard nothing about them being in Malfoy Manor, and I expect I would have heard something from one of my informants to that effect if they were there. My best guess would be that they are in the Lower Alleys. The burnt-out portion would serve as a good hiding location, and I understand from Hurst that the Alleys previously held two covens, so the people there would be accustomed to their presence."

"There are better hunting grounds in the Muggle world." Alex shook his head. "My unit will look for traces in the parts of Wizarding England not occupied by MACUSA forces, and I will report if we locate any further covens."

The Lord Potter looked as though he was about to argue, but Lina turned to Aldon instead. "Aldon. This is a surprise."

"I came for a consultation." Aldon glanced at the others around the table, reminding himself that this was a consultation in good faith. He had learned from Draco. He would take their comments into serious consideration. He would not be going off without approval of the military branch. "I have had a message from Voldemort's inner circle. The Rookwoods are scheduled to be executed by magical fire on the sixteenth of June, at two in the afternoon."

Lina threw him a sharp look. "And?"

Aldon hesitated. He had told everyone at this table already that Ed was his weak spot, and there was no reason that they would take him and his question seriously. He knew how he sounded—he had already once committed a fatal error for Ed, and this would look like a repeat of the same. But at the same time, this was Ed, and Diagon Alley was not the same as Malfoy Manor. If it meant a chance at rescuing Ed, he'd suffer whatever the Lord Potter, or Sirius, or anyone else thought of him.

"I would like to explore the possibility of a rescue or extraction within Diagon Alley itself," he said, his voice coming out only slightly strained under pressure. A glance around the table showed that the Lord Potter's eyes had narrowed, and while Sirius' expression was concerned, his mouth had tightened. He cleared his throat and continued. "Malfoy Manor, of course, would be impossible, but Diagon Alley is in the open—"

"No, Aldon." Lina's voice was firm and final. "It doesn't matter if they're outside Malfoy Manor—do you really think that Voldemort won't have a huge crowd of fanatics around him and around the Rookwoods that day? If we were at a different stage of the war, I might be willing to consider it, but we are at the end. We need to conserve all the forces that we can for an assault on Malfoy Manor."

"Voldemort is also going to have a crowd in the square," Sirius added, not unkindly. "There will be too many non-combatants there. If we start anything there, we're going to have huge civilian casualties. We can't risk it."

Aldon glanced at the Lord Potter. He didn't really expect anything different, since of the military leaders he certainly had the weakest relationship with the Lord Potter, and he was not disappointed.

"Lord Rosier…" The Lord Potter paused, picking his words carefully. "I understand your closeness with the Rookwoods, but I would have thought that your last mission to rescue the Rookwoods—"

"It's his closest friend." Alex interrupted, and his voice was flat. "Do not tell me that you would not do the same—certainly, Lina, I've heard from Élodie of your own dangerous missions to protect or save your own friends."

"Do not throw that in my face, Alex," Lina snapped, her eyes flashing. "What I did as a mercenary is very different than my role here."

Alex shrugged. "I understand loyalty. The Order never leaves a man behind. I, too, would pull out all stops to save a close friend."

"Edmund Rookwood left you behind first, Aldon," Lina snapped, turning sharply back to Aldon. "Don't you dare forget that. He left you behind first, and he was never your ally."

"He hadn't a choice." Aldon looked away, staring at an oddly shaped burn on the table. "He had just married into the Selwyn family. He just made the nobility when I was disowned. I—what I wanted was at odds with what he wanted. He wanted a stable life, and that was all."

"We all have a choice, Aldon." Sirius's grey eyes were concerned. "You had a choice, too—you could have married a pureblood, made the laws work in your favour, and climbed the ranks. You didn't have to start _Bridge_, or make a stand at the Ministry Unity Ball, or live like an outcast from magical society ducking the Marriage Law. Edmund Rookwood could have looked at the injustice and inequality of what you were going through and chosen to stand with you. He didn't."

Aldon shook his head in disagreement, though he didn't know what he was supposed to be disagreeing with, exactly. Things had been complicated for Ed, in a way that they hadn't been for Aldon—Aldon was a halfblood in a world that had just passed the Marriage Law, and he had just been disowned. Francesca had newly come into his life, and he had realised that he hadn't wanted to marry for power. He wanted the life that he had always been promised, that and so much more, and the only way that he had to get it was to fight for it.

Aldon had never expected Ed to come over with him. He had hoped, but he hadn't expected Ed to come over with him, not when everything he wanted tore down the system in which Ed had so recently succeeded. Ed had the woman of his dreams, and he would be the next Lord Selwyn. Aldon could never have measured up to that.

"No one could have predicted the war," he said instead, looking up. "No one could have predicted that a madman would murder Lord Riddle and take over the Ministry of Magic."

Lina snorted.

Aldon glared at her. "I owe it to Edmund to explore all possible avenues."

"I understand where you're coming from," the Lord Potter said carefully, and to his credit the expression on his face spoke only of concern, not judgement. "But from a military standpoint, we just can't risk it. As Lina says, Voldemort will be there in force, and there will be too many civilians in Diagon Alley for any manoeuvres. This has to be difficult for you, but we have the chance to end the war in just a few weeks. We can't risk our position for only two people. I'm sorry, Lord Rosier."

"Aldon, you believe that any of Voldemort's remaining vampire allies will be in the Alleys, correct?" Alex asked. It was a complete non-sequitur to the current conversation, but there was a note in his voice that had Aldon looking at him with suspicion.

"Yes," he replied slowly. "As I said earlier, there is now a considerable burned out section which would be ideal for hiding. I imagine it is safer than the Muggle world for them, particularly since the Alleys are accustomed to a vampire presence."

"In that case, the Rookwood execution gives my unit the opportunity to search the Alleys for traces of vampires without interference." Alex wore a small, ghostly smile on his face. "You are, of course, welcome to join us, Aldon."

There was no subtlety to Alex's ploy—but then, Alex wasn't a Slytherin. He and his unit would be in Diagon Alley on the day of the execution, and Aldon could go along. If there was an opportunity to save Ed, then he could jump for it, and he would even have backup. It wasn't a full mission backed by the army, but it was quite a lot better than Aldon had expected he would get.

"That sounds excellent, Alex," he replied with a nod. "I'd be pleased to join you and to watch your unit in action. It promises to be educational."

Lina glared at him. "Alex—"

"I am well aware of how a war works, Lina," Alex interrupted, turning back to look at her with steely blue eyes. "But the Alleys will need to be searched for Voldemort's remaining vampire allies, and the Rookwood execution is a convenient time that will allow my unit free reign to search the Alleys without disturbance. Speaking plainly, however, I also agree with Aldon. He owes it to his friend to at least see if there is anything he can do. He should be there, and while there is no guarantee that we will be able to do anything at all for the Rookwoods, there is always a chance. They might break away, or one of them might break away, or a third-party actor could become involved. You have my word that Aldon will be fine—he'll be with me, and if no promising opportunity arises for the Rookwoods, then you have my word that I will drag Aldon back to his manor with no harm done."

"I'm not comfortable with this idea," the Lord Potter said, exchanging a look with Sirius. "Captain, your record as a commander speaks for itself, but the Lord Rosier has already shown that he cannot think clearly when it comes to the Rookwoods. How do we know that that he won't break away on his own from you?"

"I won't," Aldon said hastily. "I'll stay with Alex, or with his unit. I swear it."

"I assure you that Aldon does not have the skill or power to break away from me," Alex said, and his voice was thick with amusement. "If need be, I will knock him out and drag him back."

Lina's mouth was a thin line, and she shook her head. "You're not under our orders, so I suppose I can't stop you. Aldon—remember your last mission for the Rookwoods."

Aldon nodded, letting out a long breath. Four grey merlins flashed in his memory, four messengers of death. "I won't forget."

When Aldon and Draco had been planning for the first extraction mission, they had spent hours with their heads together working out every possible detail or contingency plan. They had roped in Harry and Leo for their Potions and breaking and entering expertise, then they had involved Abbott and Zabini for the most up to date information about Malfoy Manor itself. They had spent hours researching obscure points of magical theory relating to noble manors, trying to predict what Malfoy Manor would allow Draco to do, and then Draco had spent hours upon hours in the training yard preparing.

In comparison, the only preparation Alex had Aldon do was attend twice as much training in the training yards. Two hours in the morning, and another two in the afternoon or evening.

"Planning?" Alex had asked, when Aldon had suggested it. "What planning do we need? First, this is primarily a vampire detection mission, which my unit is already well-trained to handle; second, for the Rookwoods, any possible escape will be by its very nature spontaneous. Whether there will be any opportunity depends on Voldemort, on the crowds, and on the Rookwoods themselves—if there isn't one, then we are there to observe only. Go run another twenty laps of the training yard, this time with your rifle."

Aldon had made a face and complied.

Diagon Alley, the morning of June the sixteenth, was restless. The main thoroughfare was emptier than usual—by order of the Ministry, all shops were to be closed at noon, so most witches and wizards had to have done their shopping earlier. The few people that he did see moved quickly, without lingering to chat, as if they wanted to be done their errands and to disappear without notice. It was a very different Diagon Alley than the one that Aldon remembered, and he realized with a sense of shock that he hadn't been in Diagon Alley for more than a year.

Alex and his unit dispersed quickly in pairs on their arrival, moving to investigate the different areas of the Alleys. Aldon stayed close to Alex, following him as he took a path down the main Diagon Alley thoroughfare. His back, heavy with the weight of his Disillusioned rifle, itched—they were in the open, undisguised, and he couldn't help but be wary of anyone and everyone around them. With the tensions running high on the anticipated execution, it wasn't likely that anyone would be reporting him in time for Voldemort to do anything about him. Diagon Alley was also an open space, without Anti-Apparition Wards, and Aldon was ready to Apparate back to Rosier Place and the safety of his wards on a second of warning.

A vampire detection mission was very different than what Aldon had expected. Alex had explained little, but it seemed that he and his fellow dhampir had sharpened senses to pick up traces of vampire activity. From time to time, Alex would pause, turning his head, and turn down a particular path as if he were following a scent. Sometimes, it seemed, the scent would grow cold, and he would move on. Aldon stayed close to him, his ACD shield already up, his wand close to hand.

He knew it was noon, or close to, when the shopkeepers around him began packing away things that had been out on the sidewalk, turning their signs, and locking their doors. More people were out on the streets, slowly moving towards the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice—it was early, but whether they wanted to make a good impression, or they wanted a good viewpoint, or anything else, Aldon could not tell. Alex didn't seem to have noticed, intent as he was on something that only he could scent or see, and Aldon didn't want to interrupt.

"I can feel you vibrating with anxiety," Alex said, about fifteen or twenty minutes later with a small grimace that flashed his sharp canines. "There are signs of vampire activity, but I didn't find their nest. They don't seem to be feeding in Diagon Alley, but I cannot rule out feeding in Muggle London while hiding in the Alleys. That's enough for now, my unit will be regrouping close to the square as well—it's a good time to pick out anyone under the thrall. We'll go find a good vantage point to observe."

Two wooden stakes had already been driven into the stones in the square when they arrived, and Aldon spotted Vulture drawing a runic circle of some kind around each one with white chalk. Even from a distance, he could see that Vulture's expression was closed off and grim, and he ignored anyone who was trying to talk to him. Nearby, Aldon spotted Bellatrix Lestrange, wearing the most revealing set of robes that Aldon had ever seen in his life, practically purring in pleased anticipation, as well as a dozen people he knew to be in Voldemort's inner circle. One of the Notts, one of the Carrows, a couple people that he had formerly thought of as his Avery cousins, with whom he was now altogether happy to say he shared no blood. Swallow was there, her face a blank mask that said perfectly well her displeasure.

Alex pulled him to one side, motioning him to a nearby store. It was Twilfitt & Tattings, a high-end tailor whose owners were proud blood supremacists—Aldon had a few sets of robes from them, though he doubted they would have served him at all since his blood status had been revealed. Alex's wand came out.

"Alohomora," he commanded, and there was a small _snick _as the lock turned. Aldon stared, disgusted for a moment at the owners' lack of security, but Alex pulled him into the shop. "Monitoring Charms. Screen for them?"

Aldon drew a runic screen with one hand, revealing six or seven spells throughout the room—mostly alarm spells and monitoring charms. Alex knocked them all out, one by one, and together they worked their way through to the back of the shop, to the upstairs flat.

No one was home. Everyone was supposed to be at the execution, and while the owners of Twilfitt & Tattings could no doubt have watched from their upstairs windows or their French balcony, they had evidently decided against it. Alex motioned for Aldon to come closer to the balcony, sliding the window open and casting an obscuring spell on the window to hide them.

They had a good view of the square, which was filling with people. No one dared to come too close to the wooden spikes driven in the ground, a fact that made his vantage point all the better. Unless something happened, unless Edmund or Alice managed to break away, he would have a very good view of their execution. He swallowed.

"Would it not be better to be on the ground?" he asked. His voice cracked, too loud in the silence.

"Would it not be better to be able to see what's happening?" Alex returned, scanning the crowd sharply. "Élodie and Marie-Pier are close to the south end of the square; Enrico and Bianca are on the north end. My unit is on hand—if either of the Rookwoods manages to break away, they all have instructions to pull them to safety if they can."

"Isn't there anything else we can do?" Aldon couldn't help but ask. "Causing a diversion for them, maybe?"

Alex shrugged. "We'll see what condition they're in when they come. Depending on the security with them and their condition, they may not be able to profit from a diversion. I've seen Edmund's limp. We'll see when they come down Diagon Alley."

Aldon gritted his teeth, remembering Draco. He wanted to do something—he wanted to save Ed, but he wasn't the expert here. Alex was, and Aldon remembered his promises. He would stick with Alex, and he wouldn't fly off to do his own plan. He didn't even have a plan, so he had little choice but to sit, and to wait, and to watch.

Waiting was difficult.

It was past one when they finally saw a larger group moving down Diagon Alley. Aldon didn't need an explanation to know that this was the prisoner convoy. Voldemort himself was at its head, and beside him were other faces that Aldon recognized from his administration. Prosecutor Umbridge was there, as was Mulciber, McNabb, Travers. A man that Aldon thought was named Runcorn was there, and both Rookwoods were being pulled along in the air, levitated at wand-point. Both of them were unnaturally still—injured, or Imperiused, or perhaps just resigned to their fate.

Aldon could feel something in his chest tightening, and his breaths shallowed. Had they at least been on their feet, that would be one matter—had they at least been on their feet, he would be able to tell if they were able to walk, if they could run given the chance. But when they were so still, caught in the air and held as they were, Aldon couldn't help but think that they wouldn't be able to profit from any diversion that he could cause. Any rescue attempt would need to be entirely supported by Aldon, or Alex and his unit, because he couldn't trust that Edmund or Alice would be able to help themselves at all.

A look around the square showed that there were too many people. Too many civilians—even if he tried anything, the civilians would be in the way. While Aldon didn't care about how many nameless civilians he might have had to kill to get to Edmund, there would only be more that would block their path on the way out. They would slow him down, making it all too easy for Voldemort to capture him as well as the Rookwoods.

Aldon couldn't afford to be captured. Quite apart from the fact that he knew even more than Draco had known, Aldon was not so selfless as to sacrifice himself for a chance for his best friend. He was not a selfless person, and he would not have sacrificed himself even for a guaranteed escape by his closest childhood friends. Aldon wanted things—he wanted a new world of his own making, one where he would marry Francesca and carve a new path through society in his way and in his manner, and he prized the things he wanted over his friends.

He always had.

The realization settled itself slowly against his bones, cold crystal clarity forming in his mind. Aldon had a choice, and he was not willing to risk everything he had planned for Edmund and Alice. He could, and he would, mourn their passing, but he would not be trying to rescue them. With these crowds, with this security, it was simply too risky. He wouldn't risk it.

But that didn't mean he could do nothing. The rifle lay heavy on his back, a disturbing presence, and he reached for it with a resolve that he didn't know he possessed. Alex watched without comment—Aldon's hands moved over his weapon without hesitation, checking the stock and barrel. It was already loaded with a handful of shots, and he leaned over, peering through the scope. With one hand, he focused the magnification to see in astounding clarity, as if he were only a few feet away, the two wooden stakes driven into the middle of the courtyard.

At this distance, it would be—what was the saying? Fish in a barrel. That was what Neal and Alex would have called it. He'd only need a few shots.

He thought his hands would be shaking. He thought his breathing would be uneven and heavy, that his eyes would be clouded by moisture. But they weren't—the room closed in on him, leaving nothing but him, Alex, his rifle, and the distance to the wooden stakes.

"I make a promise to all of my operatives, Alex," he murmured, and his voice sounded like it had come from very far away. "A quick death. It's meant to terrify them into realizing that what they're doing is dangerous, and I've only ever had to carry out my promise once."

"For Draco Malfoy," Alex acknowledged, no hint of judgement in his voice.

Aldon nodded, watching as they hoisted his two closest childhood friends towards the centre of the square, as they lashed them onto the wooden stakes with unfeeling hands and unfeeling magic. For all that time had dripped away all morning, slow and steady as a heartbeat, it seemed now to be rushing by him in great gulps and swallows. First Edmund and Alice had been in the convoy. Then they were in the square. Now, they were lashed, motionless and hooded, before a largely silent crowd as Voldemort strutted and preened.

He could shoot Voldemort too, he reflected. But shooting Voldemort would create chaos, and there were too many people nearby. Someone would summon a Healer for him, and Aldon did not trust that he could make a headshot in a magical environment. He had been trained against it—Alex, and Lina, and every rifle-using dhampir had told him so over the last several months. In a magical environment, never go for the head shot. Always go for the body shot. Always double tap if you want to kill.

There were too many unpredictable factors in shooting Voldemort. But there were far fewer to shooting Edmund and Alice. If he shot Edmund and Alice, he would end their suffering quickly, as he promised every one of his operatives. If he shot Edmund and Alice, he would be ruining Voldemort's prized Examples. If he shot Edmund and Alice, they would die as a symbol of resistance, and not a symbol of the might of Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic.

"This will be the second time, Alex," he said finally, raising the rifle to his shoulder and waiting.

He didn't listen to whatever speeches were being given. When Umbridge took centre stage to read what he presumed were their convictions to the audience, he only glanced at her briefly before focusing back on his friends. He didn't care what was being said, because all that was important was his timing.

He waited. He waited until the speeches were over, the words disappearing into nothing, and he removed the safety from his weapon. He waited, his finger heavy on the trigger, until Vulture took the stage and strode towards the stake that held his closest friend in the entire world.

And then he shot Edmund twice in the chest, two silent shots that still echoed louder than Voldemort's words. Edmund slumped in his bindings, while Aldon twisted to Alice, his once friend, his once enemy, and delivered the same executioner's blow. Two shots, clean to the chest, and she too slumped forwards, still in death.

The crowd broke out in a riot of screaming and crying, pushing and shoving, a many-limbed mob that had wands and rage and very little else. That very little else, Aldon knew, meant they had very little to lose. They had never had anything, or maybe they had already lost everything, but a mob with nothing to lose was a vengeful, angry, multi-tentacled monster.

"Time to go," Alex said, grabbing Aldon by the shoulder and twisting for Side-Along Apparation. "My unit will make their way back without us—we have our own means."

Aldon didn't fight. He didn't protest, and he fell out of the Apparation in a roll intended to take him inside the safety of his grounds, his rifle still pressed tightly against his chest. He had shot Ed. He had killed Edmund and Alice, and the last remains of his past had gone with them. He was not the Aldon Rosier that they had grown up with—he had not been so in a very long time, but perhaps it was only now that the full impact struck him.

He was the Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. He was a halfblood, a Truth-Speaker. He was noble, but not very noble—his family still worked in business, as did he. On the surface, much was the same as it had been for years.

Where he differed was underneath. The Aldon that Edmund and Alice knew laughed more than was reasonable. He was often flippant, often teasing, often ready with an easy joke and sometimes one at his own expense. He liked theory more than most, shunning classes that involved getting his hands dirty in favour of more those with more books, more problems, more writing. Some might have considered him kind—Edmund had once called him kind—and he had been funny, and gentle, and curious, and essentially harmless.

Aldon now was the farthest thing from harmless. The Aldon that he was now was brittle and hard, his gentleness long since worn away to nothing, and he was ruthless. The Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier had things he wanted, and he had killed and would kill more to see the world he wanted come into being. He was sharp, a pointed dagger, and he _wanted_ more than he felt like anyone in the world could understand.

Francesca was waiting for him in his study, reading through a stack of Muggle scientific papers that her father had sent her from home. The packages, heavy with the weight of paper, came once a month, along with the Muggle highlighters and mechanical pencils and pencil leads that Francesca favoured. She stood when she saw him, her dark eyes immediately widening in mixed concern and shock as she took him in.

His rifle, slung over his shoulder with the safety on now that he was striding across the manor grounds, bumped the side of his desk as he reached her and wrapped his arms around her. Her hands, hesitant for a moment, pressed against his back—he was taller than her, and by a fair margin, though that spoke more to her height than his.

"I love you," he said, and his words were heavy, a stone-cold statement that he threw out like a challenge. "I love you, and what I do—everything I do—is so that I can have a chance. A chance to breathe freely—a chance with you. A chance to give both of us everything we ever dreamed of wanting. You understand that, don't you?"

There was a pause, and she turned her head into the crook of his neck. "I do," she murmured, her voice soothing his rough edges, wearing his sharpness down from cut glass to something a little more delicate, a little less dangerous. "I do, and I love you too."

He shut his eyes, feeling the tension falling away from his shoulders. Something else, something vast and empty and broken, filled the void.

XXX

"Diagon Alley has been rioting for the past two days," Lina said, standing and staring out into the crowded room. Not everyone was there, but anyone important had heeded her emergency call. The Lord Potter sat, his face fixed in a sombre expression, to her right; beside him was the Lord Black with deep bags under his eyes. Arcturus Black was there, his steely grey eyes roving the room, hand in hand with Hermione Granger, their British International Association liaison. Aldon sat on Lina's left, Francesca beside him; John Kowalski, their MACUSA liaison, lounged on her left. Further down the table, she spotted Ronald Weasley taking notes, Harriett Potter beside Lionel Hurst, Mei Ling Song and Benjamin Levstein with the young Lord Queenscove, Hannah Abbott on behalf of the shifter alliance, the Lady Ross on behalf of the Clans, the new Lady Prewett, the Lord Goldenlake, and a dozen others. Anyone of importance had made it to this meeting, which would have been dangerous had Voldemort not been preoccupied by the riots in Diagon Alley.

These were not peaceful riots. They were very far from peaceful riots, and while no one had a death count yet, they all knew it was rising. The people were speaking, Aldon's refusal to allow his oldest friends to die as Examples to the Public apparently the straw that broke the camel's back. There was a cost to doing nothing, and the people of the Alleys had paid it. They had paid it long ago, and they had now decided that they had nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

The Wizengamot itself had gone down in flames last night. No one knew who started it, but hundreds of people had piled on fuel, and things that should not have burned did burn. Of the Hall of Lords, the grand concave room where once hundreds of noble family seats had ruled, nothing remained. No chairs were spared—not of the Book of Gold, or Silver, or Copper, with no regard for Light or Dark. The Courts of Justice still stood, but its pristine white façade was now marked with grey and black in its own attempted burning. The _Daily Prophet _was gone—a mob had done what Voldemort had failed to do, more than a year ago, and brought down the whole six-storey building in a matter of hours. A third of Diagon Alley was gone, including most of the shops that had dominated the stretch close to the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice.

"And this is a good opportunity for us," she finished, putting both of her hands on the table. Her heart was beating quickly, and she had the heady sense that this was it. She had been in the mercenary field for long enough, and she could feel by long-developed instinct that the end was within reach. All she had to do was take it. "Voldemort is occupied, and he's spreading his forces thinner than he can afford. If we can strike now, we should."

"We're not ready to strike," James replied immediately, the first objection that Lina had anticipated. "We had planned to move, at the earliest, more than a week from now. The troops just aren't ready, mentally or physically."

"But they'll never really be ready to strike," Ben, their other Stormwing, said reasonably from halfway down the table. "People never are. Going into battle isn't easy, not even for those of us who do it as a profession. Lina, when you say Voldemort is spread thin, what do you mean in concrete terms?"

Lina looked over at Aldon, who shook his head and looked down the table at Abbott. Abbott glanced in both directions, then she coughed a little and stood up.

"He—he has—" she stuttered, her eyes darting around the room and her cheeks turning red before her eyes narrowed and she forced out the words from sheer determination. Lina fought the instinct to snap at the girl in annoyance. Abbott couldn't help being a rabbit. "He has a third of his troops in the Alleys at any given time. It looks like he has split his army into thirds, onto an eight-hour schedule, to try to suppress or cool down the rioting. That—That's our best guess, two days isn't really enough for us to be sure."

"Voldemort himself is there?" Sirius asked, his voice sharper than usual, and Abbott flinched.

"N-no. He left yesterday in the evening and returned to Malfoy Manor. We haven't seen him leave since." Abbott's blonde hair, plaited out of her way, shook.

"Not his style, riot duty," Aldon drawled with a hint of dark humour. "It's too dirty, too common, and not enough glory."

"But even a third of his army is formidable." Hurst's voice was devoid of any inflection—there was no shock, no surprise, only firm statement. "The people remaining in the Alleys aren't battle-trained or battle-ready. The ones that were most likely to be able to put up a stand and fight were killed in the Fiendfyre attacks of last summer, and the ones who remain are mostly shopkeepers and the like. Desperation will only take them so far. I support moving up the attack, if only because, if we don't, what is left of the Alleys is likely to be crushed."

"You think they will be crushed?" Gareth the Younger of Naxen asked, from further down the table.

"I think it's inevitable," Hurt replied, turning to look at him. "Wands are expensive. In the neighbourhoods I knew the best maybe one in three had wands. It'll be higher in the wealthier districts, but even then, some of them will have been passed down in families and won't be as well-matched as a new wand."

"Do you have any idea how long they might hold out?" That was James, looking down the table in worry. "Do we have a death toll?"

"No firm numbers yet," Aldon said, at almost the same instant that Hurst replied, "No more than a week."

They glanced at each other, and then Aldon continued. "Putting together multiple reports, I would guess a minimum of a hundred and fifty deaths so far, and that may very well be a dramatic underestimation."

"There's just no cover—or at least, not enough that it would be effective," Hurst said, looking at James. "Some of the Guilds have taken in refugees, particularly the Healer's, the Farmer's, and the Craftsmen's Guilds, but for the most part people have just taken to piling wood, old furniture, and scrap metal to form barricades."

"Like in _Les Misérables,_" Archie murmured, his soft voice carrying down the table as he hummed a snatch of song. "Probably even less effective on Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic as it was on the French army in 1832."

The Lord Queenscove snorted a laugh, though he was the only one. "Probably setting them up in flames and slaughtering them as we sit and argue."

"The Alleys have the benefit of numbers, but unless we move, even the weight of numbers isn't going to be enough," Hurst finished, glancing at Archie and the Lord Queenscove, who seemed to be among only a handful of people who understood their reference. "But if we attack Malfoy Manor now, they might have a chance."

"MACUSA can be ready to move quickly." John Kowalski carried himself with more maturity than Lina had expected of someone his age, and he scanned the faces of the people around the table. He was a Natural Legilimens, that fact being well-known internationally, and Lina had no doubt he was reading people's thoughts as he watched. "In under twelve hours, I think. They're already on alert."

"My unit can go into Diagon Alley," Alex added, his lip curling slightly at the mention of MACUSA. "We did pick up traces of vampire activity when we were going through two days ago. If Voldemort continues to have any vampire allies, that is where they will be stationed, and there is nothing like a riot for a vampire's hunt."

James was still shaking his head. "The troops are _not ready_," he emphasized. "We told them four to six weeks, a little under three weeks ago. They've been training and getting themselves ready, but they don't expect to be moving out for at least another week and a half."

Lina fixed her eyes on him, her face twisting into a scowl. "But this is war, James. Things happen that aren't expected, and this is an opportunity that we should not and cannot pass up, especially if it means essentially sacrificing the rest of the Alleys. If we move now, we have better stability for a coming state—we're more likely to be seen as heroes. Sirius, how are we on supplies?"

"Good," Sirius replied, resting one hand on James' shoulder. "We stepped up production of incendiaries, since Aldon was going to take half—Aldon, where is that at?"

Aldon winced and shook his head. "Unfortunately, with the action around the Rookwood execution, my informant did not have time to bring down Lestrange Manor. In the current circumstances, he will not have time. I didn't take any."

"We have more incendiaries than we had planned for, then," Sirius said, looking over at Lina. "Our other supplies are good as well. The ACDs?"

"Completed last week," Francesca replied, her voice tiny. "We—They were equipped on the last group of soldiers who were waiting for them about three days ago. Mostly simple models, just the single shield-spell."

"They haven't had enough time to train with them," James said, grasping at the opening. "How many are there?"

"Not as many as you would think?" Francesca paused, thinking. "Seven."

"We can put them into the Alleys with Alex's group," Lina suggested impatiently, looking around. "It will be a little less dangerous than the Malfoy Manor assault, since they'll be backed both by the dhampir and by the rioters, and they won't have Voldemort in the Alleys with them. It's not perfect, but this is the best chance we will have of ending the war. An extra ten days, two weeks, or more are not going to give us a better opportunity. Voldemort is weak, and while he is weak, he needs to send out a third of his forces to put down a public uprising. Now is the time to strike."

Silence met her words, then Ben leaned forwards. "I agree. I think even Master Moody would have agreed—he was risk-averse, but we can never completely eliminate risk. I think our chances now are better than if we strike as planned, especially if we have extra incendiaries."

"I think I'd agree too, James," Sirius said, glancing at his friend. "More time isn't really going to help us here—more time means Voldemort crushes or otherwise blocks off the Alleys, which was still where we were getting most of our supplies, and more time for him to rebuild his forces after the Alleys. More time helps him more than it helps us. I'm ready to go."

James sighed, shut his eyes, and put his head in his hands for a moment. "You do make sense," he admitted. "The troops won't be happy to hear this, but I suppose they never would have been anyway. All right. Aldon, you said that your informant hadn't managed to bring down Lestrange Manor, and that it is potentially the best place for Voldemort to fall back to, since he has all the Lestranges on his side. What can we do about that?"

Aldon laughed, a sharp sound like cut glass. "This is hardly my area, but I suggest killing Voldemort," he said, almost flippant, but his orange-gold eyes were deadly serious. "Killing Voldemort ends the war without question. But I'd also kill Lord Rodolphus Lestrange and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange given any opportunity, since they're the ones who have control of their Manor."

"And their son and Heir?" James pressed, since Aldon had said nothing about him.

"Forget their son and Heir." Aldon said dismissively, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's smarter than his parents are, and consequently much easier to manage. And I have a life-debt on him, remember?"

There was a murmur around the table, and Lina was surprised to realize that most of them, herself included, had indeed forgotten about the life-debt. It wasn't polite to mention such things, but at the same time, Society did tend to track these matters.

"Very well, then," she said, after a moment. "You'll manage the Heir Lestrange, if it comes down to it?"

Aldon inclined his head. "I will."

"Then let's get into planning. Abbott, what are the most recent movements at Malfoy Manor?"

Abbott stood back up. "With—with the riots in Diagon Alley, we see groups of about forty-strong entering and leaving Malfoy Manor at midnight, eight in the morning, and four in the afternoon. We think the guard schedules have weakened, because we haven't seen as many sentries as we normally do. In the twenty-four hours, we've only marked two patrols moving through the grounds."

"With a third of their army in the Alleys trying to suppress the riots, they're cutting back on the fundamentals," Mei Ling Song said, looking sharply at Abbott. "We can guess that another third will be exhausted and recovering. Their defense is going to be cut much sharper than merely by a third, and the primary concern will be the defensive spells. What do we know about those?"

"There were fire-blasts and explosive spells, as well as a nasty poison-gas spell the last time we struck." Sirius tilted his head to one side.

"Those are par for the course." Lina snorted. Every manor that fortified had similar spells embedded in the grounds; she was more concerned about anything odd, the difficulty being that normally one could never be sure of what spells had been embedded in the grounds until one walked out onto them. "Those can be worked around. Do we know about anything else?"

"I don't know that there will be much else," Aldon interrupted, somewhat unexpectedly. "One thing that must be considered is that Voldemort is not the master of Malfoy Manor. There is no current master of Malfoy Manor—Narcissa is not in line, and with Draco deceased, there doesn't appear to be a clear succession. In any case, Lord Voldemort is not the Lord Malfoy in magic, he is an occupier. That means that he cannot tie his physical defences or any new wards into the Malfoy keystones, which means he cannot tie it into the innate power of the grounds. Anything that he puts in needs to be fuelled and refuelled in magic by himself or by his army. We can assume that the Malfoy default spells, which included multiple fire-blasts and the poison-gas spell, remain since they are tied into the wards, but there will be less new than we expect."

"He does have all of the power stones," Sirius pointed out. "From the family heirlooms."

"A third of the power stones cracked under the strain of the Welsh barrier," Aldon replied with a shake of his head. "I imagine more of them have cracked since. Further, power stones are amplifiers only—they are not exactly like manor keystones, which also connect to the innate power of the grounds. Power stones simply decrease the amount of magic needed for a spell, but they do not obviate the need for refuelling."

"We—we didn't see a lot of work on the grounds, if that helps," Abbott added, a little timidly. "We track movement on the grounds, so if the spells need someone to walk the grounds, we tracked it. The last concerted effort for defensive spells we saw was about six or seven months ago. Several of Voldemort's followers, along with the Stormwings, walked around Malfoy Manor and buried small, black cylinders."

Lina thought about it—there were about a dozen defensive spells that would do that, but none of them were insurmountable. "Some sort of simulacra spell, I'd guess," she muttered. "But aside from that, you didn't see any odd activity on the grounds?"

"No." Abbott shook her head. "People r-rarely even patrolled on the grounds."

"So, we can probably expect the default Malfoy defensive spells," Sirius said with a frown. "Even those we set off previously?"

"Most manors have a set of default spells that will refresh themselves when they get old." Aldon tilted his head thoughtfully. "It's been almost a year since the last Malfoy Manor attack, so I would also expect an annual spell refreshment on the default enchantments that Malfoy Manor does automatically, which would also reset the basic wards. I should clarify that Voldemort can, of course, set up his own wards and defences—the fact that he is not Lord of the manor simply means that he can't set his spells to refuel themselves from the keystones. He must find another way or refuel them manually."

"From all reports of him, Voldemort is a Lord-level megalomaniac, in a type that has reoccurred throughout history," Lina commented, her voice harsh. "He displays nearly every trait, from the micromanagement to the disregard for his own followers. It's likely that he doesn't see the value in strong wards or defensive entrenchment—he has the power to survive, and to hell with most of his followers. With his kind of magical power, he can always get more."

"What about the wards, then?" Sirius asked, a concerned look crossing his face. "My brother—"

"It seems that Master Black successfully managed to avoid any attention being paid to him for some months," Aldon interrupted again, looking across the table. "During the first assault, it seems likely that we only encountered Malfoy Manor's default wards. Master Black, however, seems to have been caught out sometime after Scotland; he appeared on the attack on Grimmauld Place, and I engaged in a ward battle with him in the most recent attack on Rosier Place. Now that Voldemort is aware of his skills, we should expect a strong ward at Malfoy Manor. You will need more Ward and Curse-breakers with you."

"Funny story, that." James smiled, though it was more of a grimace than a smile. "We lost two of our Curse-breakers through the other assaults—one in Scotland in the Hebrides, the other at Weymouth. We haven't been able to recruit replacements. Even the first time, dismantling the wards was a challenge, so we'll need replacements."

"My brother Bill is a good Curse-breaker," Weasley said, looking up from his notebook where he had been taking minutes. He didn't look at his mother as he spoke. "He'll be itching to go. I'll speak to him."

"That's one." James nodded. "Does anyone know of at least one more?"

Lina glanced at Aldon, who had gone uncommonly still. At least a third of the people in the room were looking at him—he had said too much about wards, and about ward battles, for anyone to doubt that he could assist if he wanted. The silence lingered a moment too long, Aldon no doubt waiting to see if there was another volunteer before he looked up.

"Oh, very well," he said, and to his credit he was perfectly poised and showed no hint of hesitation or fear. "I simply thought that my comparatively poor duelling skills would make me a liability, but if there is no one else, I will go."

"You're the only one whose fought a ward battle," James noted, raising an eyebrow. "You would know Master Black's skills in that area best."

"Without a comparator, I really could not say," Aldon retorted. "I will do my best to assist the Curse-breakers in breaking the wards. Once I do, then what?"

"We can destabilize the default Malfoy Manor spells without too much difficulty," Mei Ling said. "We have an earth-mage. A strong vibration spell should trigger most of them, unless the owner of the spell is there to hold it."

"If we can get at least half of the incendiaries, my units can also begin preparing the grounds," Captain Flint added, with a vicious smile. "What your mage doesn't set off, we can try to do it with a bomb. That can be part of our covering fire."

"Not half of them," Lina interrupted sharply. "We will also need the incendiaries to inflict casualties on Voldemort's troops—we can't use them all on the grounds alone. Sirius, how many extra do we have?"

"About half as many again as we need," Sirius replied easily. "We can spare a third of the incendiaries and still have the number we expected to have for assault. Will a third do, Flint?"

Flint tilted his head one way and then the other in thought. "Fine," he said. "And I'll make sure to tell my unit that you would prefer if we chucked them at the other side and not just at the ground, too."

"What about the assault pattern?" Ben asked, looking around. "We have the numerical advantage, and I assume that you're going to recommend that we assault around four am tomorrow—less than twelve hours of warning, but it makes good sense. It's exactly between shifts, so we can rely on those out in Diagon Alley not to return for some hours yet, and most of everyone else will either be sleeping or exhausted and sleeping. It's the time that makes sense. But is there going to be any benefit to sending units around behind Malfoy Manor?"

Lina hesitated, trying to paint it out in her head. On one hand, dividing their forces would give them the opportunity to flank Voldemort's forces, if everything worked out the right way. But with a third of Voldemort's army in Diagon Alley, and at least another third likely exhausted from riot duty, they would likely be able to overwhelm them by sheer numbers in any case, since they would be throwing a full two hundred people at Malfoy Manor. The larger risk were the grounds—approaching from two different directions or more would mean having to disarm more of the defensive traps laid or falling victim to them.

"No, we're large enough compared to their units," she decided. "We simply assault from the front, I think—it means we only have to clear one section of ground, and then we can engage directly. The advantage we get from possibly being able to flank later just isn't good enough compared to the cost of needing to disarm two areas of the grounds. There is also strength in numbers."

Ben nodded slowly. "My thoughts as well. And Diagon Alley? Not that the Order cannot manage their own—I have heard much of their prowess." He nodded in respect at Alex, who inclined his head in turn.

"I'll go into the Alleys," Hurst volunteered, looking resolute. "I was—am—the Rogue of the Lower Alleys. The Alleys are my responsibility. I'll go with them."

"Take three units with you." James sighed heavily, checking the time. "With the rioters, that should be enough. It's nearly seven in the evening now. If we want to be at Malfoy Manor by four in the morning, then we have to move, and move fast."

"Get what sleep you can," Lina advised everyone, as they began standing up to leave. "Even three hours is better than none at all. Go, and I'll see everyone in approximately—nine hours."

XXX

Harry didn't question him about the Alleys. Leo was glad of it, though he hadn't expected that she would; Harry was one of the few people remaining who understood what the Alleys meant to him, who understood that whether or not he continued to be the Rogue of the Alleys when there was no Court of the Rogue, he still had a responsibility. The Alleys were rioting, and Leo had to be part of any group meant to provide them with aid.

He hadn't expected the argument that followed.

"No, Dad," Harry said firmly, glaring at her father in the kitchen, where Leo stopped to ask which units he would be assigned for the Alleys. Sirius was leaning against the counter, watching, while Harry stood with her hands flat on the kitchen table, her green eyes flashing. "I'm going with you to Malfoy Manor, with the main force. I'm not going to the Alleys."

"It's needed work, Harry." James' mouth was tight and creased with worry. "You have a good relationship with the people in the Alleys, and they need to see you there. Anyone can go to Malfoy Manor, but the Alleys don't trust just anyone. You should go with Leo."

"You're only sending me there because it's the safer assignment," Harry replied flatly. "And with Leo at the head, I'm redundant. The Alleys need him, but they don't need me, and I can do better work at Malfoy Manor. I know the grounds better than anyone else who's going, both from visiting Draco when we were in school and from our rescue mission."

"She has a point there," Sirius said, glancing at Harry. "We don't know as much about the Manor as she does—none of us do. She also has the most recent knowledge of inside the manor, and you know she's a fighter, James. She and Leo carried off every single one of their supply and sabotage missions without a hitch. She can take care of herself."

James turned, glaring at Sirius. "And if it were Archie?"

"Harry isn't Archie." Sirius sighed. "Unlike Archie, Harry's shown herself to be a good in a fight. If you want me to be fully honest, she's more than good in a fight—she's more experienced than half of the soldiers, and she and Leo have gotten themselves out of worse situations than most of them, too."

"She's not of age," James snapped. "And I'm her father!"

Sirius shrugged uncomfortably. "That just makes it look worse. We set an enlistment age of sixteen—there are at least a dozen enlisted soldiers who are younger than Harry, with fewer achievements to their name. You're also a commander—if you act to favour Harry, it'll hit unit morale, and with her achievements, you won't be able to tell them that the Alleys was the best posting for her. They just won't believe you, and they'll see it as you using your power to protect your own when you should be looking out for the interests of the entire army."

"She's just one sixteen-year-old girl!" James snapped. "How can it make that much of a difference if I want to protect her?"

"She's a sixteen-year-old girl who cured the Sleeping Sickness, defeated a basilisk, fought in the Triwizard Tournament on behalf of Hogwarts, and that was before she was old enough to take her OWLs." Sirius' smile was wry. "Since the war started, you've heard the rumours. Harry and Leo move mountains; no mission fails with them at the head. They've freed people and gotten them abroad, they've seriously damaged Voldemort's supply chains, they've made a hundred daring escapes from Voldemort's followers. If Leo has to be in the Alleys, and I think he needs to be, then Harry needs to be with the army. It'll motivate the troops and make them believe in the cause. I know that you want to protect her, but we always knew that some things would be more important."

"You're just saying that because you don't have to worry about Archie being there," James grumbled, looking away, but Leo could see that Sirius' arguments were having an impact. "Harry, couldn't you have been a Healer?"

"I've fought Voldemort before," Harry said, a hint of annoyance in her own voice as she ignored his question. "He's powerful. The more power you have, the better. I'll be at Malfoy Manor whether you want me to be there or not, Dad. It's just too important, but I would rather work with you than Apparate there on my own."

James sighed heavily, turning to see Leo standing just inside the doorway. "What are your thoughts on this, Leo?"

It was obvious that he was hoping Leo would come up with a reason why Harry was needed in the Alleys, and if he were fully honest with himself, Leo would have liked to be able to do that as well. The Alleys were the safer of the two postings—Voldemort would not likely be there, and there they would have the support of the rioters. There were no defensive traps in the Alleys that Leo did not already know about, and as the Rogue, Leo still held a few surprises up his sleeve.

But he couldn't. He glanced at Harry, and he recognized the determined set of her jaw, and the fact of the matter was that Leo didn't need Harry with him in the Alleys. The three units promised would be more than enough with the dhampir unit, the rioters, and his own knowledge of Diagon Alley. He might want to have Harry with him in the Alleys, but it wasn't the right place for her.

"I think that Harry is right," he replied, his voice slow and sure. "I wouldn't say no to having Harry with me, but between the troops, the rioters, and the defences set in Diagon Alley, we should have the Alleys covered without her. It's more important that Malfoy Manor goes down—if they do, most of the group in the Alleys will probably just surrender."

James shook his head, probably the only concession he could make. He could never agree, not when it was his daughter, but he had given up fighting it. "What are your plans then, Leo?"

"I need to know what units are picked out and ready to go," Leo replied, stepping further into the room. One more day, and the war would hopefully be over. One more day, and he could finally start the long healing process for the Alleys. He had long since come to realize that he would never start to heal from his losses until he could begin to rebuild his community. He survived, therefore he had to rebuild, therefore the Alleys could never fall. "The riots in the Alleys are already flagging from exhaustion. My mother at the Healer's Guild has water, Potions, and other supplies that we'll be able to run to the barricades, and I'll be able to trigger some of the inlaid defensive spells in Diagon Alley to rally people as well. Captain Dragić and his unit are already there, but their priority is hunting any vampires left, not relief for the people. We're going to go as soon as possible."

James paused. "We won't be ready to move for some hours."

"We'll have a long night ahead of us." Leo shrugged. "I'd like the freshest troops I can get, and enough Wideye Potion for one dose for everyone."

"There's enough Wideye in my lab—I've been stockpiling all the key Potions, and everyone seems to use Wideye more than most of the others," Harry supplied, with almost a guilty note. "Forty doses is nothing, go right ahead and take them."

"And take squads eight, nine, and eleven with you." James sighed again, though Leo thought this one was a mark of resignation and a resolution to move on. With the main strike happening not even twelve hours later, there was a lot to do to mobilize. "Two of them are stationed here and weren't on sentry today, and they have the last of the ACDs; the last one is at Queenscove."

"Thank you." Leo nodded, turning to leave.

At the doorway, he hesitated. He felt like he should say something more—he wanted to say something to Harry, but he didn't think pulling her away would be very appropriate at a time like this, and in any case, he didn't quite know what to say to her, either.

He had told her that he loved her when they were underneath Malfoy Manor, had kissed her even, but then he had been convinced that he was about to die. He had never intended on telling her anything at all until she was old enough, until it seemed like she might be receptive, but once it was out, it was not something that he could take back. But once they had returned, Leo had gone immediately to Queenscove for Healing, and then Harry had been grieving for her friend. They had never spoken of it, and as long as Harry didn't mention it, Leo didn't feel like he could.

It wasn't the right time. It might never be the right time.

He was about to leave with nothing said, but it was Harry who broke the silence. "Leo…" she said, drawing his name out softly. "Stay safe, won't you? And when I come back—when we win—then we'll talk."

Leo glanced over his shoulder. Harry wore a small, soft smile on her face, one that he had long since learned was her most genuine one. Without realizing it, his own face softened into a similar expression. "We'll do that, lass. You stay safe too—and take down a Lord-level wizard for us."

Her quiet laughter followed him as he headed to her Potions lab to find the Wideye Potion.

XXX

Francesca worried. She had been at the meeting—she had been there to talk about ACDs, because Aldon had wanted her there, and because John had been there, and she didn't even know the other reasons. She had been there, and she had watched as Aldon volunteered to go with the main army for the Malfoy Manor attack for his expertise with wards. She hadn't wanted him to volunteer, but her hand grabbing his under the table had been too slow, and she didn't think he would listen to her anyway. This was too important to him, so he couldn't listen to her.

She understood. The worst part was that she understood, so as much as she might want to fight him on it, tell him that he didn't need to do this, they didn't need to do this, they could just run away to America or France and just work on the ACD forever, she understood why he wouldn't. This was his home, and this was the chance for him to win everything he ever wanted—hold of his manor and the life he had been promised, political equality, everything. He would never be dissuaded from it.

That much was evident from his words to her yesterday morning. Everything he did was for a chance for his dreams. She had understood, because there was nothing she would not do for her ACD, but it made it very hard for her to ask him to stay with her now. But she still worried, because whatever practice Aldon had been doing in the training yard, he still wasn't a good fighter. Not compared to everyone else who trained in the training yard.

She hadn't even had time to talk to him about it after the meeting. He had disappeared into his study to prepare without anything else said to her, and she had been left on the other side of the door. She had stared at it for a minute or two, debating whether she should walk in to talk to him anyway, but she hadn't any idea what to say. In the end John, who understood better than anyone else the maelstrom of worry, understanding, annoyance, and anger in her head, pulled her away.

John wouldn't be going. MACUSA forces were providing backup on the attack, nearly forty military Aurors assigned to go into Malfoy Manor with the main forces. Of that number, a significant number were British-born, and had volunteered to be part of the strike force. John, however, was in Britain as a liaison only, not a soldier, so his request to go with the main forces had been denied. He didn't have the training, either as an Auror or a field medic, so he would remain with her at Rosier Place.

He was still a better fighter than Aldon. Where was someone to tell Aldon that he couldn't go?

She had a sinking feeling that if she didn't do it, no one would. And she wasn't even sure that she should be telling him not to go, because she understood why he would be going.

She found herself curled up in his sitting room, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands and a soft wool blanket around her shoulders, staring into the fireplace. It was the middle of June, but it was unseasonably cool, and the house-elves had set her a roaring blaze. She had tried to distract herself by reading—if not a scientific paper, then at least a romance novel—but she couldn't concentrate. The heavy clock on the mantle ticked the seconds and hours away, the mechanical sound incongruous with the rest of Aldon's very magical room.

She ought to have been sleeping. If Aldon was going to be leaving tomorrow with the Malfoy Manor strike forces, then the responsibility of watching the wards would fall to her. She would need to be awake at the same time or earlier, but she couldn't imagine sleeping now. Not when she was stiff with anxiety and worry, when her mind kept spinning on the same things, over and over and over again. She should say something to Aldon. But she couldn't. How could she say anything when she understood? But she still should say something to him.

It was around eleven when Aldon finally came into his rooms, a book under his arm. She looked up from the fire, feeling her neck creak from where it had been fixed for far too long. He looked sharp, but it was a sharpness borne of adrenaline—dark bags still hovered under his eyes, and his mouth was downturned in worry.

When he spotted her curled up in a corner of his sofa, however, he immediately smiled. "Not gone to bed yet, Francesca?"

She shrugged, setting down her half-empty cup of hot chocolate. "I couldn't sleep."

"You're worried."

"Of course, I'm worried, Aldon!" she snapped, straightening in her seat. "You're going tomorrow—you haven't slept—you're not really very good at duelling or anything—"

She cut herself off sharply, looking back at the fire and letting out a long breath. "I know this is important, and I understand. I just—it's dangerous."

That was it. That was all that hours of spinning had managed to put together in her sorry head: incoherent nonsense. _Insulting_ incoherent nonsense, though she didn't think that Aldon would be upset about her pointing out that he wasn't very good at duelling. He knew as well as she did that he was persistently thrown in the dirt in the training yard, but she didn't like to mention it. Her mother always said that men didn't like having their weaknesses thrown in their faces.

His smile widened slightly, as if he could hear her thoughts and was amused, but Francesca knew that he couldn't. Her Occlumency was good enough to pick up anyone reading her thoughts. He crossed the room and settled down beside her.

"I'm quite a lot better than I used to be," he said conversationally, putting his book down on the table beside him and reaching out for her hand. "I'll be careful, Francesca—once I break through the wards, I'll fall back to the centre, where there will be many people to cover my back. Lina, Sirius, the Lord Potter and others will be taking the front. I—"

He paused, and there was a flash of uncertainty, then he looked away and dug in his pocket for a moment. A small wooden box appeared, one that Francesca didn't need to an explanation to identify. She fought the urge to jump up and screech—she and Aldon had been through this! She was too young, and in all their discussion over the last year, she thought it had been clear. She knew that Aldon would prefer otherwise, from his less than subtle hints every now and then, but she had always pointedly ignored them. That should have been, she thought, all she needed to say on that point.

But Aldon would be going into battle tomorrow. Battle was dangerous, and if Aldon didn't come back—

She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to argue with him about it tonight. She didn't want to argue at all, tonight.

"I'm not asking," Aldon said quickly, his voice awkward as he held out the box. "Or—I'm not asking unless you want me to be asking, in which case I am asking. I don't want an answer. I—oh, Merlin, I'm making a hash out of this."

She took it, because she didn't know what else she was supposed to do. It was carved black wood, with a symbol that she recognized as the Rosier coat of arms embossed in silver on the top—three birds on a field. It snapped open with a flick, and inside, nestled in white silk, was a delicate silver ring.

No, not silver, she corrected herself as she picked it out to examine further. She couldn't tell for certain, but the sheen of it was slightly different than sterling silver, and there was intricate scrollwork detailing on both sides of the ring. White gold was more durable and held detailing better. At the top of the ring was a single large white pearl—big enough to stand out and impress, but not so big to get in her way.

It was a very beautiful ring, she had to admit. It was exactly the kind of ring that she would have picked out for herself: non-traditional, luxurious, but not ostentatious. She moved to put it back in the box, and caught Aldon's golden eyes, flickering orange in the firelight, staring at her with almost a longing, desperate sort of look.

She hesitated.

"You—you don't—" Aldon took a deep breath. "I don't want an answer now, and I don't want an answer until you want to give me one. I simply thought, if I didn't come back tomorrow, I'd have wanted to give it to you and to make my intentions known. If I don't come back tomorrow, everything in the manor is yours. My oath makes you next in line, and all you have to do is claim it. You'll know if I fall tomorrow. If I do come back tomorrow, then—then you can give me an answer then if you are prepared to give me an answer, or you can tell me you aren't ready to give me an answer, and I'll wait. I'll wait until you're ready to give me an answer, whether it be weeks, or months, or years. I'll always wait for you."

The last sentences had come out in a fluid rush, almost faster than Francesca could follow, but she understood. He wasn't asking, because he didn't know if he'd come back tomorrow. But he was asking, if he came back, even if he hadn't said the exact words and even if he didn't expect a reply. He was both asking and not asking at once, and it was all very confusing but somehow also very romantic.

"It's a very beautiful ring," she admitted softly, pulling it closer to her again. The firelight danced patterns in the sheen of the pearl, red and violet and green.

Aldon grinned, a bright look that Francesca realized she hadn't seen in many months. It took years off his age and made him look like the twenty-year-old that he was, and not the stiff, proper Lord Rosier to whom she had become accustomed. He looked like Aldon _Blake_ again, if only for a moment, and for a moment Francesca had a flash of all the futures they had talked about together.

America. The ACD. Their college years, when he did a Mastery in Magical Theory while she did her degree in engineering. They could laugh, and there would be no war, and they'd work hard but it would be so much fun. They'd travel freely—Francesca would take him to New York City, and San Francisco, and Hong Kong, and they'd eat all the food and not have a single thought about sitting sentry on the wards, or being attacked, or defensive entrenchment. Aldon could heal from all the terrible things that she knew, even if he wouldn't tell her, that he had done, and life would be good, and peaceful, and full of pleasure.

He had to survive for that to happen.

Alex's words stuck in her head, Alex's words and every single tropey romance novel that she had ever read. There was power in love—love conquered all, love moved mountains, love threw people in impossible situations and made it possible. Dhampir in love had conquered powerful vampire lords and defeated vampire armies, even if that love made them more likely to disobey command in the name of love. Aldon loved her and she had no doubt that he was prepared to die in this action—but she didn't want him to die. She wanted him to come home, back to her, and that meant giving him hope.

She hesitated once more, then slipped the ring on her finger. "I'm just—just seeing how it looks," she stuttered, blushing furiously. "This—this isn't an answer, Aldon. I'm just seeing how it looks and feels."

"Of course," Aldon replied, his eyes bright and hungry as he slid closer to her. "But it is beautiful on you."

"It's a bit big," she retorted, only for something to say, but the moment she said so she realized that the ring had adjusted itself to her size. It had tightened, and now it fit perfectly. An enchantment, probably woven right into the gold. "Oh."

Aldon smiled. "Do you like it? Is it to your taste?"

Francesca nodded, feeling wrong and uncomfortable in her skin. She was impressed that Aldon seemingly hadn't noticed—she wasn't lying, strictly speaking, but neither was she telling the whole truth. "I like it. It's—I like it very much."

"I'm glad."

Francesca averted her eyes and looked into the fire. "We should—we should go to bed. It's only four hours until the call to muster, isn't it? We should both—try to sleep." Even so saying, however, she didn't get up. The fire was too warm and comfortable, and so was Aldon's bulk, sitting next to her.

"You can go, if you like," Aldon replied, letting out a deep breath and reaching for his book. "I don't know that I could sleep much anyway. I'm going to keep reading on ward battle strategy."

Francesca shifted slightly in her seat, hesitating. "I don't want to go to bed without you."

He looked down at her, thinking. "Then—it is comfortable here, isn't it? We can stay here. If you fall asleep, I won't mind. I'd like the chance to hold you, if I may."

Francesca thought it over and found herself nodding. It was comfortable, and Aldon was beside her, and if he didn't come back tomorrow then at least she would have this. "Okay," she murmured, and she leaned into him. "Wake me—wake me when you're getting ready to leave."

XXX

"Archie."

Hermione's voice came from his bedroom door, and Archie looked up. Her hair was a wild mess, stray curls forming a halo around her face, and the look on her face said that she had spent the last few hours in a stressful phone call with the BIA headquarters. With the Heathrow Portkey Hub in MACUSA hands, getting around had become even easier for her—she could Portkey out to Heathrow, to a hotel room that the BIA had set up for her nearby, and spend hours in conference calls with New York City. Things were coming to a head, and they were arguing on how best they could help.

Not recruitment—anyone prepared to return to England and enlist had already done so. But this was hopefully the end of the war, and asking people to commit to a week or two of immediate aid work was very different than asking people to commit to months of training and war. Hermione was hoping that they could get a dozen or more Healers from abroad to come in tomorrow or the day after. Whatever the result of the attack (and Archie hoped it would be success), there would be casualties. Archie himself had spent the last few hours gnawing away at the problem, considering their stocks of Potions and Healing capacity.

They didn't have enough Healers. They never had enough Healers. St. Mungo's was there, and they were formally neutral, but no one had trusted a St. Mungo's Healer not to turn them into the Ministry. Anyways, even St. Mungo's wasn't equipped to handle a war or war casualties, nor were they experienced in the sort of trauma or spell damage that war caused. Archie couldn't help thinking darkly that the resistance probably now had the best trauma Healers and medics in all of the former Wizarding Britain.

"How did it go?" he asked, turning in his chair and blinking away neat rows of Potion names and numbers of doses. "Can they send anyone?"

"They're doing a call and will arrange the plane tickets, but we can't expect them until at least tomorrow night." Hermione sighed, but it was tiredness, not disappointment. "Even that will be a miracle, but they'll be coming with a full stock of Healing Potions. Whatever happens tomorrow, we can use our entire stock to keep people alive if we need. They're also going to keep fundraising, because we're going to need quite a lot of financial aid to rebuild once the war is over. When we win, we can hope that BIA members will begin coming home, the way that Ireland and Scotland are already seeing."

"You're confident we'll win, then?" Archie quirked a small smile. Everyone else at Potter Place, from Harry, through Dad and Uncle Remus and Uncle James, had been grim and serious since they came back from Rosier Place.

"I have to believe we'll win." Hermione settled herself on his bed, in the room he had claimed at Potter Place years ago, used whenever he stayed over. Grimmauld Place was gone, but Archie was lucky, to have so many places he could call home. "If we don't win tomorrow, we'll likely end up being refugees ourselves. We're winning now, but we're throwing everything we have at this mission. If we lose here, I don't think we'll be able to recover. We've scraped the bottom of the barrel in terms of recruitment, and so has Voldemort. If we lose here, we'll probably have to just leave England in Voldemort's hands, content ourselves with having won Ireland and Scotland. It'll be a generation at least before we can try again."

"Those sound an awful lot like doubts, 'Mione." Archie's voice was still light, but he looked away. He knew that she was right—he had seen the reality in the meeting, and he still saw it in the cast of Dad's face, in the way that Harry had handed over hundreds of doses of the most common Healing Potions, in Uncle Remus' haggard expression and the stiffness of Uncle James' shoulders. "Have faith—we're in a good position right now. Someone has to have faith."

"That someone is _you_, Archie." Hermione had pulled her legs up onto his bed, leaning against the wall. "You're always the one that has hope. You believe so that the rest of us do, and I—"

She hesitated, tilting her head as if thinking about what she needed to say, and reached up a hand to rub her eyes.

"What is it?" Archie prompted, when she had been silent for a few moments too long. "You…?"

She let out a deep, steadying breath. "You need to be there tomorrow."

"What?" Archie blinked, taken aback. He had thought she was going to say that she loved him, or something similarly rare and precious and sentimental. "I—be there, tomorrow?"

"Yes." Hermione's nod was slow and determined. "Archie, you need to be there tomorrow. At Malfoy Manor."

"But I'm not a soldier," Archie said, his own voice shaking. "I'm a Healer, not a fighter. I wouldn't know the first thing to do, and Harry will be there. What use am I?"

"You're not Harry." Hermione's smile was small, and with a bit of surprise, Archie realized that her eyes were a bit wet. "Look—Archie—I don't really know how to put this. For me personally, and for the British-born but internationally-educated contingent, people like Derrick and Isran and so many others, you represent us. People like Lord Potter, or Harry, or even Dumbledore, they cared about Muggleborns and halfbloods being sent abroad in a broad, principled sort of way, but they never really met us or understood us or anything. They argued over our rights in the Wizengamot, they made deals over us—but you went and you stood a trial to say that the laws were wrong and you were going to take a run at them, and you weren't going to make any backroom political deals over them. I'm not sure I can ever explain to you what that meant to me, or to any Muggleborn or halfblood who was kicked out of Britain to go to school."

She paused, looking away slightly, gathering more words. "That was where it started, but after that, there was _Bridge—_you went and you talked about things that no one ever had before. From Muggle books to movies to ideas of mass emancipation, you went and made them available to the wizarding public. And it wasn't that no one had the ideas before, but no one dared to say them. Then, when attacks started happening, you told everyone what happened. We published exposés about attacks that were happening, we told people the truth, and people started picking up _Bridge_ for it. Our readership became more than just people who were born in Britain but sent abroad; you picked up a readership that included purebloods, halfbloods and Muggleborns, noble and non-noble, and we came to be trusted. _You_ came to be trusted."

"I don't see—" Archie tried to interrupt.

"No, let me finish." Hermione let out a long breath. "Whatever happens, the Malfoy Manor attack is important. You need to be there to tell people what happened later, to make sure that deaths aren't forgotten. Lina doesn't care, and your Uncle James is too practical for it, and they're all going to be too busy actually fighting to be able to see the bigger picture. And we need the bigger picture—if we win, we need to make sure that our losses are remembered, and if we lose, we can't let the narrative be dictated by Voldemort. We just can't. You need to be there."

Archie bit his lip, Hermione's words rolling through his mind. She was right—she made sense, as she always did, and Hermione was the voice of British-born newbloods and halfbloods who had left Britain. If she thought something was a good idea, then it probably was a good idea.

"A poor job it would be if I'm killed straight off, though," he replied, trying to sound light, but his mind was already turning. If he could make a difference, he had to do it. He had to go. "I have one of Chess' ACDs. A good one."

"That's not going to be enough." Hermione shook her head. "I know, it's a tall order—"

"And I have a broom." Archie interrupted, snapping his fingers. Or, well, Harry had a Firebolt, and Archie was sure that Harry wouldn't mind him borrowing it. Or, well, Harry in normal circumstances wouldn't mind him borrowing it, though she would probably lose her mind if she knew he was going to borrow it for _this_, but the cause was a good one and sometimes, it was better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. "The air is safer, isn't it? Marcus is my friend, or he was once. I'll go with the air troops—I'll have a bird's eye view of everything, but I'll be protected."

Hermione smiled, but the effect was ruined when she reached up to wipe her eyes. "I know it's dangerous, Archie, but—but it's important. When you're out there, don't do anything stupid, and just observe. Let Flint and his unit handle any attacking, and just—just be there. Be there, observe, take notes if you need to, and don't get killed."

There was a part of him that was inclined to make a joke, but she was too serious and worried. Instead, he went over to her, wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss onto her cheek. "I'll be careful," he promised. It was all he could do. "I'll be so careful, and Marcus will look after me too. We'll win, and then tomorrow at this time, we'll be making plans to rebuild Wizarding England for the future."

Hermione sniffled, wiping her eyes again. "That sounds nice, Archie. That sounds so, so nice."

XXX

_ANs: And we're almost to the end! Yay! Thank you to like the 3 readers who have stayed with me so far, and to meek_bookworm who is very happy to be done betaing everything. I couldn't have managed without you! Next chapter is more-or-less the final chapter and will be up next week, then there'll be a short epilogue up for New Year's, and then we'll be done! As always, leave a comment or review to cheer me up!_


	21. Chapter 21

The square between the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice was empty. The riots might have started there, but they had been pushed on days ago, and accordingly it was the best place for Leo and just over forty fighters to Apparate or Portkey in. It was past twelve, almost one in the morning—it had taken Leo too long to collect his assigned units, and by the time they were ready to go they had decided to wait until Voldemort's followers assigned to enforce order in the Alleys had changed shifts. Better not to be caught straight off, or so was the feeling.

It was cold for June. The night air was crisp, making the dark canvas jacket he wore over his other clothes welcome. The atmosphere in the air, however, felt old—odd, and old, and tired. There had been violence here, and if he concentrated, his magic could still feel the echo of curses and hexes that had been thrown.

He drew his wand and cast a _Lumos _Charm, scanning the square. The Wizengamot was only a burnt-out shell, the ground marred with blocks of blackened stone and rubble; the Courts of Justice across the square was still standing, though its white edifice had been covered in dark soot. Most of the shops nearby had been torn down, their windows broken, their awnings ripped and skeletal. Chunks of stone, wood, glass and cloth were scattered across the square, though Leo was glad that there were no bodies. Those, it seemed, had been taken away.

"We'll be on our way," Captain Dragić murmured, touching Leo on the shoulder. Leo fought a shudder—he had known too many decent vampires for the existence of a group whose sole purpose was to wipe them off the face of the earth to do anything but make him uncomfortable. The Crypts had been a bit odd, to be sure, but the Shrouds had been a valued part in the Lower Alleys community. But allies were allies, and the vampires allied with Voldemort had not been his covens, so Leo didn't protest.

"You'll intercede if you see Voldemort's followers attacking anyone?" Leo asked. Captain Dragić had already said that they would, but he needed to hear the confirmation.

"Yes," Captain Dragić replied, not mentioning the six times he had provided the same confirmation in the last three hours. "We'll start by sweeping the areas that were burnt last year, but I expect that we will regroup with you before the night is through. A riot or mob is the best place for a vampire coven to hunt, and they'll be attracted to the crowds. Good hunting, Rogue."

Captain Dragić turned away, signalling his people, and melted away into the darkness.

Leo took a deep breath, tasting old ash on the air, then he waved for the remaining three units to follow him. He was still the Rogue, so within this magical space, he still had abilities beyond anyone else in the Alleys. The closest access point to the controls was a block away, between two buildings, and he made his way there and focused, waiting for that innate sense of the Alleys to come back to him.

The Alleys had withstood much over the years, and they responded as readily as they always had. He didn't know if the previous Rogues had ever worked out their magical authority over the Alleys, but he suspected not. He had never heard about the controls when he was looking into challenging the Rogue for rank, and nothing about the last Rogue's behaviour had ever tipped him off that they existed. Instead, the Alleys themselves had called to him after he had won the kingship, and he had found his way to the closest control access point soon afterwards.

The Alleys hummed slightly when he connected to them. They felt a little weary, if he thought about it—they were perfectly aware that a large section of them was still burnt out and gone, and they wanted to know when Leo would be back to rebuild. Soon, he told them, and then he asked about the riots.

There was a jerk behind his collar, and suddenly Leo had a bird's eye view of the entirety of the Alleys. He swallowed his nausea, focusing on the sections of the Alleys where he could see torches, and people moving.

There were several barricades set up—more than he had the people to cover, but if that was the case, it would be so for Voldemort as well. Instead, he asked the Alleys to point him to those that didn't belong. The Alleys knew its residents, and after a breath, it pointed out the dhampir unit fanning out through the former Cesspool and Market districts, then three groups in the Patton, Flash, and Upmarket districts. The largest group seemed to be collecting near the fountain of St. George and the Dragon in Upmarket, in front of a large barricade. The group in Patton was only prowling, looking for stragglers, while the group in Flash was setting up an attack formation against a much smaller barricade at the corner of River and Bain. Leo cursed.

No wonder his mother wanted him to collect supplies from the Healer's and Farmer's Guilds before going. Leo had ways around the barricades—it would have been well-nigh impossible to fully block one part of the city from another—but he could see that Voldemort's followers had effectively retaken control of Diagon Alley, Craftsmen's Alley, Knockturn Alley, Market and Patton Districts. Getting back to the Guilds for supplies would have been difficult and dangerous for someone behind the barricades. Not everyone in the Alleys knew how to Apparate.

One more night, Leo told himself, before he turned back to the three units that were still following him. Donaldson, in charge of one of his units, was shifting his weight between his feet and looking around uneasily, while the other two captains, Thornley and Heron, were stiff in their wariness. They all knew what was happening in Wiltshire tonight, and they were all tense and worried. Leo studied them all, taking the time needed to gather his thoughts.

Once, words had come easily to his lips, words and smiles and cheerful humour. It seemed that those days were past, because he had nothing sweet left to say.

"Forget anything that's happening elsewhere," he said finally, looking around. "We can't do anything about it, so we might as well forget it. We need to get the water, potions, and other supplies from the Guilds, and we need to get them behind the barricades. Voldemort's followers have split into three groups. One is just searching for straggling rebels in Patton district, the other two are facing off against barricades in Flash and Upmarket. They outnumber us, but split up as they are, we can pick them off one by one.

"Donaldson, you're the most senior captain—take half of the supplies and go relieve River and Bain in Flash District. They're the smaller group, and Voldemort's followers there are gearing up for an attack, so by the time you get there they'll probably be striking. You should be able to eliminate them. Thornley, you're hunting the group in Patton. Kill them if you have a chance, but distraction is more important. I don't want them coming to the aid of anyone else. Heron, you're with me—the biggest group of Voldemort's followers is at the barricade in Upmarket, but they're in a square and I can let off riot fountains into their formation if we drive them into the right spot. We'll bring the rest of the supplies with us."

"Aye, Captain," Thornley said, saluting and making to move out, but Leo held up a hand to stop them. In all his years as the Rogue, he had given many speeches, but none of them felt quite like as this one. This speech wasn't to his own—these people weren't members of the Court of the Rogue, most of whom were now dead. This wasn't a speech for the Alleys alone, but for all of England. This was different.

"Be careful, all of you," he said. "And don't hesitate to kill."

XXX

Despite her orders at the meeting, Lina doubted that many of the soldiers had managed to sleep. The sensible ones among them would have asked a friend to _Somnium_ them for an hour or so, just as Lina had asked Christie to do for her around one in the morning. Those that hadn't thought of it would be running on too much adrenaline and anxiety to have gotten much rest at all.

Certainly Aldon, standing beside her, hadn't. He had the distant, focused look on his face that Lina recognized from Christie after a long day of concentration, and Lina would have put money on Aldon having spent the last eight hours or so memorizing everything he could about ward battles from a textbook. It was the sort of thing he would do, though her opinion was that his last-minute studying mattered less than his ability to react on the spot, which would have been better helped by six hours of sleep.

"Francesca is in the study, watching the wards," Aldon murmured. "John is with her and promised me that if we failed, he'd get her out of the country. Aman is with her, and Christie and the house-elves have everyone else ready to move out as well. John further advises that Heathrow Portkey Hub has been warned and will accept transits from all our safehouses."

"Dublin and Edinburgh Portkey Hubs have been alerted too," Lina replied absently, reviewing her troops. Three units would be moving out from Rosier Place, the entirety of their forces; Alex's unit had been gone hours ago. The soldiers' expressions varied from eagerness, to determination, to worry and well-hidden fear. Normal, in other words, though the hard-bitten professionals with whom Lina was used to working would never have shown worry or fear. They were too used to violence in their lives for one more attack to faze them.

"All right, everyone," she announced, thinking that at least this would probably be her last speech. That was something that she would not miss when this was over. Inspirational speeches had never been a strength, nor had she ever cared to be a good public speaker. "You all know what is on the line here—I don't need to tell you how important this attack will be. We succeed here, then we win England, and we put Voldemort on the run if we don't kill him outright. We lose here, and we ourselves are likely to be on the run. Keep that in mind.

"We're going to be Apparating to a muster point approximately a half-mile from Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire to meet with the rest of the army. I'll be in the lead. We move quickly, and we move quietly—we can hope that the riots in Diagon Alley have Voldemort's followers exhausted enough that they won't be attentive, nor will they be able to put up a good fight. We outnumber them a little more than two to one, but don't let that comfort any of you. Remember that our safehouses were able to withstand far larger numbers with traps and other defensive entrenchments. We'll be trying to disable as many of them as we can, but be aware of not just the enemy, but the ground around you. Anything unusual, and you scream a warning."

She paused, looking around. Her soldiers didn't look very comforted, though they did look more determined, so she called it a job well done. She nodded sharply. "Those of you with ACD wards and shields, turn them on. We're moving out, everyone!"

The muster point had been selected by the shifter alliance—they had used this one and approximately three dozen other points for their surveillance operations. The shifters had gone ahead hours earlier to knock out as many of the monitoring charms as they knew about, so Lina could hope that they would be able to approach relatively unnoticed.

They were hidden behind a low hill. The grass was long and unkempt, which would leave tracks, but Lina couldn't say she cared overmuch. No one would notice those tracks until it was too late for it to matter. She didn't bother casting a _Lumos_ charm, instead simply turning around and marching forwards. James and Sirius were coming in on a point to her right, while Lady Prewett had another two units to her left. Mei Ling, heading in front of the Queenscove contingent, would be close to James and Sirius' troops, and she trusted that everyone else was also in place. There wasn't much she could do about it now if they weren't.

A quick look at her watch told her that she was on time—it was three-thirty in the morning, and they could certainly cover a half-mile in half an hour. Especially because they weren't going to be making much effort to remain silent. There were almost a hundred and eighty of them, so they could hardly remain hidden. Even if they all put on Disillusionment and Muffling Charms, the ripple in the air would give them all away.

She drew her wand and strode forwards. Her units would follow her, and it was important that she move with confidence.

The fields in front of here were still, the grass slick with night-time dew. She heard some of the soldiers swearing as they slipped and fell, to be caught by their unit-mates and pulled upright. She didn't bother telling them to be silent—there wasn't any point. She caught sight of the other units joining her on their left and right as she moved forward. Comforting, though she couldn't say that she expected otherwise.

There were woods starting about a quarter mile away from the Malfoy Manor wards. Most old wizarding manors had woods or something like it to shield their estates from prying eyes, especially prying Muggle eyes. Unplottability Charms and many of the other spells now used to hinder Muggles had been invented after the International Statute of Secrecy, which had come into effect centuries after many noble wizarding manors had been built. Not Rosier Place, but most older manors.

The woods were thick, the trees gnarly and overgrown. For a moment, she debated carving a path with magic, but it would be a waste—the woods would slow them down, but that wouldn't matter as much as the magic they had remaining for a fight. They could carve a path without it. Aldon hesitated, but one hand on his arm had him stiffening and following her as she made her way into the dark trees.

A flash of magic caught her eye, and Aldon froze.

"Monitoring Charm," he whispered, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "It's already gone—the flash shows that it was triggered. We should have screened the woods better."

Lina's jaw tightened, but she shook her head. "It was probably too much to hope that the shifters would have managed to find and take them all out anyway," she murmured. "We won't be the only ones to trigger an external Monitoring Charm. Look sharp, Aldon, the soldiers' eyes are on us."

"Shouldn't we warn the troops?" Aldon whispered back, his eyes flickering meaningfully behind them.

"For what purpose?" Lina shook her head, very slightly. "They're already on edge, and they know we'll be fighting. They're already imagining monsters in the woods. Telling them that we set off an external monitoring charm will just make them even more paranoid, and not usefully so."

"What about pre-emptive attacks?" Aldon frowned.

Lina snorted. "Aldon, did you do a pre-emptive attack on Voldemort's forces when they struck at Rosier Place, either time?"

Aldon grimaced. "No."

"No, because it doesn't make sense to make a pre-emptive strike when you're in an entrenched position," Lina replied, still moving forward. "If he makes a pre-emptive strike, Aldon, we're _lucky_—we have a chance to take Voldemort or a large number of his followers out without dealing with any spells he might have embedded in the Malfoy Manor grounds. No, if he's clever, he'll do exactly what you did and use this extra warning time to gather his forces and prepare."

"I don't like that," Aldon muttered, looking away. "I very much do not like that."

"Tough," Lina said, though she could feel the small smile on her face. "If anything happens at the wards, we'll cover you so you can focus just on the wards. Once you break through, you know your orders?"

"Fall back," Aldon recited immediately. "To the centre or back of the group. Take my shots when I see them, but I am best as a ranged fighter and should not be on the front lines."

"That's right," Lina said firmly. "You don't have the duelling experience to be anywhere near the front lines, but you do have a good eye. Stay out of the way and let us push the way forward."

Aldon nodded, shifting the rifle on his shoulder as he followed her forwards.

The wards flickered into being in front of them—or rather, they didn't, but Aldon stopped and drew a runic screen spell with his fingers, and the wards blazed with light through his screen. In front of her, Lina could only see more dark trees, an illusion projected by the wards.

Her foster son examined the wards for a minute, his expression turning darker by the minute. "Complicated," he muttered finally. "I can see the Malfoy Manor base wards underneath, but Master Black has added a complex structure on top. With the warning we sent, we can expect an active defence. Where are the other Curse-breakers?"

Lina pulled a comm orb from her pocket. "James. I need Bill Weasley, and your other Curse-breaker."

"Hastings is here—let me get Lady Prewett, Captain Weasley is with her." There was a rustle from the orb, and James came back. "Lady Prewett, Lina is requesting Captain Weasley."

It was a long minute before they heard a reply, but Weasley's voice came through the orb, only a little unclear with the doubled connection. Lina would do a lot to adopt Muggle communications technology, which was considerably better suited for war than the closest wizarding equivalents. "Rosier, Hastings—are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Two layers in the ward. One's the same as the one I, Jones and Gibson unravelled last year, the other is new." A new voice came on, sounding sour. "The new layer is a mess—it'll take weeks to unravel."

"Not two layers, and we don't have weeks," Weasley replied, brusque. "There's two wards: the Malfoy default ward, and the new one. Whoever wove it tried to tie it into the main Malfoy wards as much as he could, but look closer. It's not a part of that ward, they just tried to make it look like it was one ward."

"Master Black's reputation is well-deserved," Aldon commented, examining the ward with narrowed eyes through his runic screen. "But he couldn't weave it into the main Malfoy wards because he's not the Lord Malfoy. There is no current Lord Malfoy. We can break the complex ward with sheer power if we need to do it. The Blacks are Dark—are either of you Light? Thibault's multiplier effect—"

"I'm Light," Weasley interrupted. "So is my mother, and half my units. I can get a boost if I need one, but it would be an enormous waste of power. Look at those power conservation sigils! It's efficient, and brute-forcing should be the last resort. It'll take a good five of us out to break it on force alone."

"Fortunately, we can hope that we won't need to," Aldon replied, dismissing his runic screen with a wave of his hand. "Master Black will be defending his wards in person. I'll do the ward-battle—I have a strategy and with luck, I may be able to break it. If not, we may need to resort to brute force."

"I know how we broke the Malfoy wards the first time," Hastings said with a small sigh. "There's that—the base ward hasn't changed, so the same technique should work."

"How long?" Aldon asked, looking at the orb. "To break the Malfoy ward?"

"Probably no more than ten minutes," Hastings replied. "Five if I have Weasley's help. You can keep Black occupied that long?"

"I hope so," Aldon muttered, then he stepped forward towards the wards—

And the wards flared.

"'Ware!" Lina yelled, tackling Aldon out of the way with her weight. Aldon went down like wet cardboard, and a line of poisonous green light went over their heads to strike the ground where Aldon had been. _Avada Kedavra_—damn it, they were right on the other side of the wards, and with the wards still up she and the troops were easy pickings. They couldn't even see the other side to pick them off with Muggle weaponry, let alone retaliate.

"Shields, _now!_" she snapped, her wand out and already casting _Engorgio_ on a spare pebble on the ground. The rock swelled, going to a thousand times its size, shoving them backwards when it butted up against the wards. "Stone or earth—we need cover! Aldon—"

"I'm fine," Aldon snapped, slightly out of breath. "Get off of me—and I can do the wards from here."

Lina shook her head, twisting to look behind her. Her troops had reacted, Transfiguring, Summoning, or Engorging bits of debris to turn into physical shields that they were now huddled behind. No bodies—that was a good sign. She reached for her comm orb, which she had dropped on the ground to grab Aldon.

"We're under fire," she said conversationally. "Suggest you order troops to put up physical spell-blocks or shields. Aldon is getting into the wards. Aldon, can you give us forewarning of when you break it?"

"I can try," Aldon murmured, his eyes already half-shut in concentration. "Don't bother me—I'm in a ward-battle."

Lina sighed, pulling her own rifle from her back and setting it beside her. Glancing around, she Transfigured a few leaves nearby into bags of sand, then did the same on her other side, shoring up their meagre shelter.

"Confirmed," James said, after a moment. "We're under cover as well. The message is being passed along, Hastings is at work. We'll hold."

"Received," Lina replied, then set the comm orb down beside her.

This could be turned to their advantage. When the wards came down, they now had cover, while Voldemort's followers would likely have to fall back past Voldemort's own entrenched defences. If they could drive Voldemort's followers back fast enough, they could potentially use them to set off the entrenched defences, or learn where the spells were rooted. At the very least, if Aldon gave enough forewarning, they would at least have a few moments of open season on Voldemort's followers before they fell back.

She reached for her rifle and turned around to keep an eye on the blank, slightly sinister image of dark trees in front of her, waiting for the wards to melt away.

XXX

The wards were a beautiful lattice, the new ward integrated in intricate knots with the old. Or, that was what the ward was intended to make them believe. They weren't—Aldon wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't already known that no one at Malfoy Manor had the power to alter or integrate a new ward into the Malfoy Manor defences. Since he had known, however, he had seen the knots instantly.

He ignored them, looking for the mind behind the wards. Master Black was here, Aldon could feel him from their last battle, and he was waiting. Black was waiting, secure in the safety of his wards.

The last time they had fought, Master Black had been on the offensive, and Aldon the defensive. On the offense, Aldon didn't think that Master Black had been particularly strong—he was very clever, but he was methodical, which did not bode well in an attack. Master Black liked to take his time and unravel each part of the ward or spell or trap when it came up, and he liked elegant solutions. Aldon had been far better there, throwing in thorny, if inelegant, problems and relying on speed to keep ahead of Black. Here, however, Black would have the advantage. Black had had time to build strong wards, just as Aldon had had at Rosier Place.

Aldon licked his lips, setting up his strategy. He had been thinking about this since it had become clear that he would be at Malfoy Manor with the main army, and he needed to find a way to turn this from Black's advantage to his own.

Black was a Master of Ward Construction, said to be the best in all of Britain. From a technical perspective, Black was far better at Ward Construction than Aldon could dream of being. But as a formally trained Master of Ward Construction, he would have certain weaknesses.

First, Black knew that he was better than Aldon. He expected that he was better than Aldon, and he would be secure in that knowledge. There was a good chance, therefore, that he would be overconfident. Second, Black was _only _a Master of Ward Construction. He was not experienced in war, and when it came to making and breaking wards, he would likely expect Aldon to approach the problem as if it were a problem of the wards. He would expect Aldon to get into his wards, and to begin unravelling the spells the way that he, an expert at ward construction, would approach it.

But Aldon was not a Master of Ward Construction. Aldon was entirely self-trained, and his interest wasn't, strictly speaking, in Ward Construction. More than that, his training had been in the circumstances of war, so his advantages in a ward battle with Black were simple.

The wards weren't important. Aldon did not care about the wards, no matter how elegant and technically proficient they might be. He just wanted to break them, and he didn't care about following any usual practices in Ward Construction to do it. And that meant he wouldn't be approaching this like someone who practiced Ward Construction, by going into them and trying to unravel them in a pretty, elegant way.

A ward-battle wasn't about the wards. A ward-battle was about the people involved.

There was a particularly large and interesting looking knot in the ward nearby. Aldon arrowed his magic and drew a few runic symbols to throw lightning at it. The knot lit up, a beacon that lit up a network of other spell-knots. The ward held, not even shuddering under the pressure, though Aldon hadn't expected it to do anything else. He focused, waiting for something else—and a second later, he found it.

There was a gentle sense of laughter, further along in the ward. Aldon tried not to smile as he lobbed another blunt-force spell at the ward, this time a _Reducto_ Curse with some power behind it. Again, the ward didn't flicker, only shunting the spell to one side, and again there was that haunting sense of pleasure from along the wards. Master Black was connected into the wards, ready to react if Aldon actively threatened the wards in any way, but he was confident. He believed his ward would hold, and if Aldon was playing the same game as Master Black, then he was probably right.

But he wasn't. Instead, over the next fifteen minutes, Aldon made a perfect fool of himself. He threw absurd amounts of power at the ward, his spells ranging from focused attacks intended to break through a specific aspect of the ward, to trying to overload the ward as a whole. He did throw in a few legitimate strikes, letting Black come forward to defend the wards, simply because it wouldn't be believable otherwise, but for the most part he simply played exactly into what he expected Master Black would think of him. Aldon Rosier had just graduated from Hogwarts, and of course he couldn't break a ward set up by the best Master of Ward Construction in Britain.

But every spell that Aldon lobbed at the network provoked a response, one that Aldon could feel reverberating through Black's ward. When they finished with the Malfoy default wards, he felt Weasley and Hastings join him, each separately looking for weak points in Black's ward and both of them far more seriously than Aldon was looking. With all those responses in the ward, Aldon narrowed in on one critical piece of information—Black's location.

Aldon wasn't a Master of Ward Construction, but he knew enough. Master Black was not a Malfoy, and that meant exactly three things.

First, Black could not be behind locked doors. Aldon and Francesca could afford to be the comfort of his study when they defended their wards, but that was only because Aldon was magically the Lord Rosier, and even if Francesca was not yet the Lady Rosier, she was something like it. They had authority and power over their grounds that Black simply did not enjoy over the Malfoy grounds. Since Black was an interloper on Malfoy grounds, he had to connect to the wards in a very physical way, just as Aldon had to hook into them from barely three feet away. That meant that Black was on the grounds, almost certainly somewhere nearby.

Second, Black couldn't connect his ward into the Malfoy keystones. He didn't have the authority to, and he was almost certainly fuelling the ward himself. One look over the ward told Aldon that he was probably right—the ward's own elegance suggested that Black needed to make the ward as technically efficient as possible to keep the ward up on the strength of his magical core. It was an impressive feat, and one showing that Black's magical core was likely deeper than Aldon's, though ultimately it would work in Aldon's favour.

Third, if Black was tied into and fuelling his wards, all Aldon had to do was take him out. Without Black, an intrinsic part of his ward, the ward would likely collapse for lack of power. And would he look at that?

Black had only warded against magical attack—witches, wizards, and magical objects and weapons. There was no sending a broom in there, but a bullet was a very different matter.

Master Black was sitting in meditation approximately a two hundred feet away from him. He was in rifle range, closer to Lord Potter's forces than Aldon's group, but that was only better for Aldon. From his position, he could arrange his rifle at an angle, propped up on the sandbags that Lina had transfigured rather than peeking his head over the rock that shielded them from a rain of _Avada Kedavra_ spells. He moved slowly, shifting into a kneeling position, thankful for Weasley and Hastings who were still distracting Black with challenges to his ward—challenges that Black was deflecting with ease. Thankfully, under an onslaught of other attacks, Aldon could hope that Black believed him to be magically exhausted. He wouldn't be far wrong if he guessed so, because a check on his own core showed that while he wasn't drained, he had thrown more than half his core into the ruse.

Aldon took his time lining up his shot. He couldn't see Black behind the wards—in front of him, to his eyes, there were only dark trees. But with his magic, he could feel that the wards were there, and that Black was sitting in direct line with his shot. He was probably even smirking, satisfied in how his ward was holding.

Aldon shut his eyes, breathing deeply as he concentrated on his magical senses rather than his physical ones. With every breath, his rifle bobbed. A sixteenth of an inch, from his perspective, but a sixteenth of an inch in his scope was the difference between a good shot and a bad one. He breathed, concentrating on his mental image of Master Black. A deep breath in, and a deep breath out, and another deep breath in and he let his finger grow heavy on the trigger_—_

The shot went off, a crack in the night, and the wards collapsed like a tapestry falling from a wall. Immediately, spells rang out around him, Lina's own Killing Curse loud in his ear. He looked up, and the illusion of dark forest was gone, replaced by dozens of Voldemort's wide-eyed followers, who were starting to turn tail and run.

The battle had begun.

XXX

Archie had to wait many long, impatient hours until Dad, Uncle James, and Harry left. He smiled and waved them off shortly after three in the morning, telling them that he would see them when they got back. He couldn't say anything about his own plans; Dad would have tied him up if he knew what Archie was thinking, and he wouldn't have been alone in doing it. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, in this case.

Instead, after they left, he slipped up to Harry's bedroom and pulled her Firebolt out of the closet. Archie had one too, but his broomstick had been commandeered for the aerial support units months ago. He hadn't been using it, and they had needed good brooms. Harry had kept hers only because she took more active missions and might have needed it.

Harry's Firebolt hummed under his fingers, ready to go, and he grabbed it and headed back downstairs. Hermione was waiting for him in the main sitting room, her face creased with worry—she would see him off, then take the Portkey Hub back to London to wait for more news. She stood, grabbed him around the shoulders, and yanked him down into a hug so tight that he could barely breathe.

"I'll be fine," Archie choked out, rubbing her back in reassurance. "Marcus will look out for me. A little less enthusiasm, 'Mione, but the thought is appreciated."

"I don't know Marcus," Hermione muttered, letting him go, and Archie was glad to see that the tears of earlier that night had disappeared. She was steady, ready to face whatever came next, and Archie needed to feel that steadiness. "Be careful, Archie. The usual range for any spell is only about thirty or thirty-five feet, so if you stay higher than that—"

"I know." Archie replied hurriedly. "I know, 'Mione. I'll be careful, I promise."

She stared at him a moment, then her lips tilted into a small smile. "You'll be as careful as you can be, in the circumstances," she said, her voice a little tart, but she reached up and kissed him to soften the words. "Just come back, all right? Even if things go badly—Apparate anywhere in London. America will take us in as refugees, or Ireland. We can try again in a generation."

"I can't think about that yet." Archie took a deep breath and stepped back, resting his hands on her shoulders. "Not before today is done. I should go."

Hermione nodded, a little stiff, and they stood there awkwardly for another few moments. Archie tried to fix Hermione in his mind—the worried furrow between her eyebrows, the precise shade of brown flecked with gold that were her eyes, her long eyelashes, the small bow of her mouth. He wanted to kiss her again, and a proper kiss this time, but if he did that then he'd never leave. He'd never be able to leave.

"You should go," Hermione said, sounding abrupt. "You haven't any time to waste."

"You're right," Archie said, tearing himself away. "I'll—I'll see you later, Hermione."

Marcus had answered his Patronus within an hour of him sending it, an African wild dog jumping through his window with the Apparation coordinates for the muster point assigned to them. By the time he arrived, Apparating into cluster of young men and women, he was the last one there. Marcus glanced at him and raised a hand in welcome.

"Archie," he said, his voice low and gravelly. Archie had seen him around, especially at meetings after the Scottish campaign, but they'd never had time to catch up. A few words here or there, and that was all. "How are you?"

"As good as can be expected," Archie replied, flashing a smile at the people surrounding him. He didn't recognize anyone, but that was no surprise. Flint recruited based on skill with a broom, and most of his recruits, Archie suspected, were former Hogwarts Quidditch players. "You?"

"Ready to bomb Malfoy Manor into dust," a new voice said, and Archie glanced over to see a redhead with brown eyes and a dusting of freckles over her milk-white face. "Ginny Weasley. Have we met?"

"Not formally." Archie's smile was weak. "We've seen each other, but never talked."

Ginny nodded. "I can't tell," she said bluntly. "With the ruse. When were you, you and when was Harry, you?"

"Weasley is going to be looking after you tonight," Marcus interrupted, holding up a hand. "Stick by her, Archie, and turn on your ACD. Weasley, keep him out of trouble—he's here for _Bridge_, as a war correspondent, and he's not going to be hit or hit anyone. Everyone who has ACDs, turn them on and use them."

Weasley pulled up her sleeve up, flicking on the electronic device at her wrist, and belatedly Archie realized he had to do the same. Even with all of Chess' improvements, the ACDs tended to run out of steam about six hours in, so he hadn't wanted to turn it on earlier. Six hours seemed like a long time to fight—the Scottish Clanmeet hadn't felt longer than an hour, and Grimmauld Place had fallen in less than that—but he didn't know. Around him, he saw winking LED lights in several colours, as a dozen people around him turned on their own ACDs. The air units were the ones that had seen the highest uptake in ACDs, partially because, Archie imagined, they also needed to control a broom in the air and any advantage on shielding was worth it.

"All right, air units," Marcus said, projecting his voice to carry. "This is a standard backup assignment, even if we have a little more firepower than we would normally. Wood, Page, Davies, Johnson, Spinnet, Bell—you and I are holding the bombs, so that means we're leading the phalanx. Orders from above are to use them to clear the grounds of any traps, but we're also supposed to lob them at the other side if we can, so keep that in mind. If you have a chance, crew, throw them into Malfoy Manor's windows. Command wants us blowing them out into the open, no dirty in-manor fighting."

"Is that why you recruited a bunch of Chasers? To throw bombs?" A tall, Black girl with her hair woven in dreads asked, a slight, almost hysteric, laugh in her voice. "Except for Wood and Page."

Marcus glared at her. "I picked you because you lot have the best aim and the worst skills at actual Defence," he snapped, before turning to the rest of the group. "The rest of you, you know your responsibilities. You're providing covering fire for the ground troops, and you're defending us. I haven't had a single loss yet—don't let today be the first day I need to write to one of your families. We're about a mile out from Malfoy Manor, so get going. We want to be there when the wards fall."

There were no other words, and Archie followed the others as they each swung a leg over their brooms and took off. The air, rushing against his face and ruffling his hair, was icy cold, and Archie reached down to the edge of his blue-and-gold AIM sweatshirt to turn on the Heating Charms. He wouldn't be using magic to attack anyone tonight, so there was no need for him to conserve his energy.

The flight over the grounds wasn't long—their brooms moved much faster than the ground units could cover, and Archie spotted their army crawling along like ants before long. There were so many people, almost two hundred of them, and he knew with a sinking gravity that whatever happened, not everyone would be coming home. With that sombre thought, he faced forward and flew into the wind, part of the dark, silent air support unit. In the darkness, he'd have a hard time making out what happened on the ground below, but he'd have to manage. At least twenty-five to thirty feet in the air, outside of range of any attacks, or at least far enough that he would have plenty of time to defend from a strike.

There was a movement ahead of him, Marcus holding a hand up in the air, and Archie braked when he saw everyone else stopping. They were hovering about fifty feet above the ground, as far as Archie could tell, but he couldn't see much below him. It was all forest, a dark sea of trees that rippled like waves.

"Malfoy Manor is about here," Marcus said, his voice distant and hard to hear over the wind. "We wait."

No one replied. Instead, Archie caught several grim looks being exchanged, and they hung in the air, waiting. It was cold and growing even colder. The wind whipped through his too-thin sweatshirt, the heat from his Heating Charms ripped away from him almost before he could feel it.

Long minutes passed as they waited. Marcus was focused below them, one hand already in his bag, which held a share of their bombs, the other already holding his wand. All their bags had Undetectable Extension Charms, Archie guessed. He didn't know how many bombs they were each holding, but he hoped it was enough.

Below them, the empty noise of the wind was broken by yelling. Archie looked down—and his eyes widened.

There were no more forests—instead, Archie saw rolling fields, cobblestone and stone tile paths, and a huge, white mansion with bright lights that spilled out onto the lawn. But he didn't need the light to see, or hear, the chaos starting to unfurl below. Lines of light were being fired between what he could see were their own troops and Voldemort's followers, who were starting to fall back.

Glancing forward, Archie could see that Marcus' face was twisted in an expression of anger and hate, and it was Marcus that lobbed the first bomb at a cluster of Voldemort's followers. The bomb hit the ground and exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere, and people went down. Archie swallowed—he hadn't been on the battlefield before, not unless the Scottish Clanmeet counted, and watching was a very different experience than only arriving in the aftermath. People below him would be dying, either on his side or not. He had the skills to Heal a lot of them, but he couldn't go down to the ground to do it. The battle was ongoing, and it was too dangerous.

"Come on!" Ginny yelled at him and pulled him upwards another ten feet and away from the rest of the air support. "You're here to observe, get information, and report, right? So, do it!"

"Right," Archie replied, slightly out of breath, and he started squinting at the ground below, trying to pick out people, faces, movement. It wasn't much, but it was what he could do—it was all he could do. He soared, circling with his eyes on the ground, while Ginny kept a sharp eye out for anyone attacking them.

Below him, the battle moved. It was a living being—things moved so quickly he could hardly keep track of it as it happened. He knew that they were advancing, the front was moving closer to Malfoy Manor as he went, and he could see bright, liquid splashes on the ground from the bombs that Marcus and the air support units were throwing. He saw that some of them hit traps, triggering those, and he rolled out of the way of a bright orange cloud as it whooshed by him.

He heard a sharp cry of warning below him and looked down to see Voldemort appearing in a cluster of their soldiers. He stopped in horror, debating getting involved—but there was another cry a little further away, and a second Voldemort popped into existence.

"What are you doing?" Ginny yelled at him, grabbing the back of his sweatshirt where he was drifting downwards into the fray and throwing a Blasting Hex downwards into the battle. "Get back here! I can't defend you if you're floating all over the place!"

"But—" Archie hesitated, then he pulled upwards. Voldemort had to be here, and they had known that going in, but whenever he appeared someone died. Or multiple people died. But there wasn't anything he could do about it, so he kept flying.

There were four Voldemorts reigning terror on the grounds, and Archie could see a fifth one watching when he banked towards Malfoy Manor. The fifth one was the real one, Archie would bet money on it, even if the fifth one stood stock still and only watched the grounds with narrowed eyes and a downturned, angry mouth. Ginny saw where he was looking and motioned for them to fly back—they wouldn't get closer. Too dangerous. Archie followed.

Marcus and his unit were paving the way forwards—Johnson had lobbed a grenade at one of the Voldemort facsimiles, their own units diving out of the way, and the shape disappeared into ash. The Voldemort shapes in the middle of the battle might not have been the real thing, but they were plenty real, sowing chaos where they stood. He saw Dad and Uncle James facing off against one of them, playing off each other the way that Archie assumed they must have when they were Aurors together. He stopped, watching for a moment, but the exchange of spellfire was too fast. He couldn't hear the spells being cast, but he knew enough to know that they were all intended to debilitate or kill. He didn't want to hear it.

Lina was facing off against a wizard that Archie didn't recognize. Dad had said once that Lina was older, almost a generation older than Dad and Uncle James and Uncle Remus, but Archie had never seen a sign of it other than a few more strands of white in her hair. As he watched, she dodged a spell, then her fingers moved in a rune and her opponent was blasted backwards. He went down, and he didn't get up. Lina moved on.

"Archie!" Ginny's voice caught his attention, and she threw a _Fortis _spell around him, deflecting a jet of blue light. A group was flying towards them, wands in hand—not as many has Marcus had in the resistance air corps, and Archie could see at a glance that they weren't as talented in the air as Marcus' group. Most of Marcus' group were flying hands-free, moving like sharp, wild birds in the air, while Voldemort's followers flying at them were grasping their broomsticks with one hand and flying doggedly towards them.

Ginny flew at him, waving a hand and gesturing for him to turn around and fly back. "Behind the phalanx—Captain Flint will take care of them, but we have to get out of the way!"

Archie nodded, wheeling in the air, and taking off to shelter behind the resistance air units. Those of them carrying bombs peeled back, dropping out of the way, letting a second group advance with wands drawn. The air battle, Archie could see from only a few minutes of heated spell-casting, was a foregone conclusion—Marcus' group seemed to have a preternatural sense of where to go, where to dodge, and where to be to back each other up perfectly. Compared to them, Voldemort's air unit was clumsy and hampered, without the experience on brooms necessary for aerial combat.

Below him, Dad and Uncle James had finished off with one of Voldemort's facsimiles, and moving onto a tall, broad-shouldered man that Archie didn't recognize. Dad and Uncle James were both tall, but this man was half a foot taller than even them, roaring spells that Archie didn't recognize. But Dad and Uncle James were dogged and persistent, and after a moment, Archie forced himself to look away. He couldn't just hover here, being worried for Dad and Uncle James.

He scanned the grounds, hesitating, then glanced at Ginny and waved a hand. He couldn't linger here, watching Dad and Uncle James and their troops alone. He had to make sure he saw everyone, that he devoted as much attention to everyone else as he did his family. He didn't know where any of the foreign-educated witches and wizards were stationed—for awhile, they were mostly stationed at Queenscove, but Dad and Uncle James had made an effort to integrate them better throughout the rest of the army since. Still, he hadn't seen the Queenscoves yet, so he looked for them.

The Queenscove flank, along with most of the English north, were easily found. They were the ones wielding fire, wind and earth against the enemy with wild aplomb. Neal and his cousin Fei had teamed up, with Fei conjuring flames and Neal blasting them into the enemy, while Archie could see that the earth underneath them was never still. Kel was standing back, her naginata in hand, ripping great chunks of earth from the ground and throwing them at the enemy. Neal caught sight of him as he flew overhead, shooting him a bright smile, then turned back to his fight with what looked like renewed vigour.

Archie didn't know most of the people that were fighting. From time to time, he caught sight of someone that he knew, or that he had come to know. He saw Percy Weasley casting a _Fortis_ spell around a round-faced woman with dark brown hair, one of his defence lawyer friends; he saw Kingsley Shacklebolt shoving one of his soldiers down and throwing out a _Stupefy_ at an enemy. He saw Ron Weasley, towards the middle, dodging a spell and casting _Confringo_ at the woman who advanced on him. There were dozens of faces that he vaguely recognized, some of whom he could name, and even more that he couldn't.

He caught sight of Aldon, huddled behind a pile of bags of sand that had to have been Transfigured or conjured into being, well back from the front lines. He had a rifle in his hand, rather than a wand, and at his distance from the enemy that made sense. Without an amplifier, Aldon probably was out of range of spells, but he seemed to be waiting to take his shots. As Archie watched, he fired; Archie couldn't hear it, but he saw the recoil.

He scanned the grounds, looking for Harry, looking for Uncle Remus. Harry had been with Dad and Uncle James, but she must have gotten separated from them since she wasn't there anymore, while Uncle Remus was stationed with the last group of recruits that had finished training. He looked for them—if he remembered right, they were with the Longbottom forces.

It took him a minute to find them, but finally he spotted Augusta Longbottom walking across the grounds as if she were a queen, hexing any enemy that dared to cross her path. Uncle Remus was several dozen feet in front of her, and Archie jerked on his broom when he saw how close Uncle Remus had come to Malfoy Manor. He was almost in the shadow of the building, deep in a fight with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Archie had never met the woman, she was undeniably a Black. She looked closer to him and to Dad than Archie would have liked to admit, from her wild hair to the shape of her nose and chin. He couldn't make out her eyes in the darkness, but he would have bet that they were the same steely grey as his own. That was where the similarities ended—Cousin Bellatrix was also rumoured to be vicious and insane, and Archie's grip on his broomstick tightened.

Uncle Remus was good, Archie told himself, trying to make himself look away. Uncle Remus was fit, and he was fast, and as a werewolf, he was physically stronger than any wizard could be. He was holding his own, dodging one of Bellatrix's spells and retaliating with a light blue spell. Archie was just about to turn away when he saw someone else advancing on Uncle Remus' left. He didn't recognize him, but from the robes he was wearing and the way he was advancing, Archie knew that he was with Voldemort.

"Uncle Remus!" Archie cried out a warning, swooping down and ignoring Ginny's voice as she called him back.

Uncle Remus looked up—but not at Archie. One of the other recruits, one that he had trained, had caught his attention. She was in trouble, fending off two on her own, and he took a single, critical moment to throw a shield spell around her to protect her from a spell she didn't see coming.

And in that moment, two spells hit him. Neither of them was the Killing Curse, but Archie knew by the fact that Uncle Remus went down that the spells had to be terrible, because anything that wasn't terrible would have just glanced off him. He was halfway down to look at him when Ginny threw herself in the way.

"Where the _hell_ do you think you're going?" Ginny snarled at him, pointing him upwards while dodging a spell that had come from below.

"My uncle—" Archie gestured helplessly down to the ground, where he could see Uncle Remus still lying on the ground.

"And five of my brothers are down there, and my mum," Ginny snapped, throwing a _Confringo_ spell to the ground at the closest cluster of enemies. "And I have no idea what trouble they might be in on the ground, but I know I can't go down to help them. I have my orders, and so do you. If you can't watch, then eyes up, and I'll escort you off the battlefield to Apparate home."

"But—"

"But nothing." Ginny shook her head, flying at Archie to corral him upwards. "You do _nothing_, Black. Come on."

Archie looked down at the ground at the motionless shape of Uncle Remus still huddled below, swallowed hard, and followed Ginny upwards.

The battle seemed to go on forever, Archie's Healing magic itching harder against his skin as the minutes wore on. Uncle Remus wasn't the only fallen shape on the grounds. From his perspective, he couldn't even tell clearly who had lost more. Some of the people on the grounds weren't dead, Archie had done enough trauma Healing in the last year to know that, but more of them would be the longer the battle went on, succumbing to injuries that could have been Healed earlier. He didn't know what time it was, nor did he know how long they had been out there.

Malfoy Manor was burning. At least some of the bombs had hit their mark—parts of the walls were gone, and Archie could see hungry flames licking out of broken windows. The rising smoke obscured the pale pink light of the pre-dawn, and it took Archie too long to realize what he was seeing.

Harry was advancing on Voldemort in the ruins of the manor. Voldemort had been on the grounds earlier, but he had to have either gone back or been pushed back into the debris. There was too much dust and debris, too much smoke—Archie caught only flashes of light as they traded spells. Both of them were using the terrain to their advantage, the remaining walls of Malfoy Manor providing cover. Archie flew towards her, trying to get a closer view, but Ginny cried out.

He spun around to look at her. She was gasping in pain, a deep cut in her arm dripping blood thirty feet downwards to the ground, but her wand was moving as she threw a hex below her. They'd gotten too low—Ginny had always been below him, within range to fire spells at the ground. He looked around quickly, checking to make sure that they were safe in the air, then he gestured for Ginny to fly upwards out of range. He might not be able to go to the ground to Heal anyone, but he could certainly take care of a cut, no matter how deep, without setting foot on the ground.

"Forget about me!" Ginny screamed, clinging to her arm. "Look at Malfoy Manor!"

Archie turned back, looking over his shoulder, just in time to see a jet of green light slam into Voldemort. He fell backwards, his eyes sightless and dead, and he didn't get up. For a moment, Archie stopped breathing, and he wasn't alone.

It was a slow ripple across the grounds, passing below him like a wave. There was yelling, so much yelling—from the snatches that Archie caught in the air, the resistance forces were calling for what was left of Voldemort's followers to surrender, and it looked like more and more were doing it, dropping to their knees and holding their empty hands in the air. Pansy Parkinson was among them, her wand falling to the ground as she knelt.

"No!" The scream was high-pitched, cutting even through the many cries of surrender. Bellatrix Lestrange whirled on Harry, her wand held high and ready to strike, and Harry was still standing, stunned, at what she had done. She was too slow—Harry was fast, but Bellatrix was driven by madness, and Archie could tell from the movement of Harry's wand that she wouldn't get a shield up in time. Her feet were moving, but there was a low wall in the way, and she stumbled and fell.

But a jet green light flew from another cluster of Voldemort's followers, one that hadn't yet surrendered, and struck Bellatrix in the ribs. She keeled over, dead, and when Archie looked, he saw Caelum Lestrange lowering his wand, an expression of pure hate on his face.

"Any of you think of doing the same, and I will kill you too," he said, projecting his cold voice over the grounds with a _Sonorus _Charm. "We are surrendering, fully and completely. You start fighting, and you answer to me, understood? We'll go, and we'll go quietly!"

With his words, the last few people sheathed their wands, holding their hands up for surrender. Silence fell over the battlefield, silence but for the crackling of the flames still consuming Malfoy Manor. A frozen second later, the resistance fighters came to life and started moving, Uncle James mechanically directing them to confiscate wands and group people for arrest. Other groups formed, checking the bodies and separating out the injured and the dead.

The Malfoy Estate was in ruins. A quarter of the mansion was gone, though Archie could see that Harry and others were starting to pour water on the fires. Large clouds of steam were billowing into the skies. Across the grounds, Archie could see that large chunks had been ripped out of the earth, lying scattered with blocks of stone and assorted other debris everywhere he could see. There was a light sheen on the grounds, reflecting pale golden glow into the sky. Archie frowned, and turned to the east.

Between clouds of smoke and steam, the sun was rising on a new Wizarding England.

XXX

_AN: A fun thought experiment: which resistance character killed the most people in the war? I'm fairly certain it was Aldon followed by Francesca (mostly in the Rosier Place attack), but Sirius gets a mention for taking out like two dozen when he blew up Grimmauld Place. Lina, though, might have killed more but doesn't know it, since she just critically injures people and walks away. There's an irony in that. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm for the beta and yes, it's a shorter chapter than usual (action takes up less wordcount than drama). Epilogue will be up and out next week. If you enjoyed, leave me a comment or review!_


	22. Epilogue

Francesca sat on Aldon's desk, swinging her legs as if she were a child. John was sitting across from her in Aldon's grand desk chair. The air around them was still—they had barely spoken in the last three and a half hours, but then again, they didn't need to speak. They had never needed to speak, not if they didn't want to, and both of them were too tired to go to the effort of words.

Neither of them had slept much. John had sensibly caught a few hours of shuteye, while Francesca had barely managed to doze against Aldon's shoulder. They had seen the troops off, then taken refuge in Aldon's study so that Francesca could watch the wards with a platter of hot, bitter tea and tasteless biscuits. Francesca's stomach was a roiling ball of pain and anxiety, and John was frowning in worry. Even Bubbles, sitting on a cushion beside them, seemed to have caught the mood—the pink ball of fur and fluff was grumbling in discontent, a noise that Francesca had rarely heard from him.

The mood was in the study was repeated throughout the manor. Through her connection to the manor, Francesca could see that Christie and the rest of Blake & Associates were gathered in her rooms, still awake and playing a half-hearted, distracted game of cards, their emergency bags packed by the door; Cho Chang, Aldon's new assistant, was curled up an armchair and staring sightlessly into a fire. The rest of the manor was empty, as still as the grave, and she couldn't even see the house-elves fluttering about at their work.

There was a repetitive snapping noise—the sound of Francesca flicking open the ring box and closing it. She had pulled the ring off as soon as Aldon had left, but she had kept the box in hand. Over three and a half hours, she had taken the time to examine it many times, and she stopped for the umpteenth time to look at it.

John kicked her in the foot. _What are you thinking? You're not seriously…_

_No. _Francesca sighed, flicking the box closed. _I want him to come home, and sometimes I think—maybe if I plan on saying yes, if I promise the universe that I'll marry him, he'll come home. But the spirit of war isn't something I can make a deal with, so it's just—it's stupid. It's stupid, but I just want him to come home._

_You can want him to come home and not want to marry him,_ John replied practically, frowning slightly. _They're different things_.

_I know_. Francesca shook her head, breaking eye contact for a moment and reaching for her cold cup of tea. "I haven't lost my head, John. You know me."

"I know." John snorted. "Though you can do better than Aldon. He's such an ass."

Francesca giggled, a lighter noise cutting through the silence, and caught his eye. _You'd say that about anyone I dated._

_Faleron was better. Politically there's the fact that he's a Republican and he's from the South, but I could have gotten over that. _John grinned. _You know, depending on whether he changed his politics._

Francesca burst into laughter, though it was short-lived. _And a revolutionary Lord from England with a past alcohol problem isn't better?_

_Even with the revolutionary aspects, he's ridiculously conservative. Probably not much better than a Republican. _Even with that thought, John was smiling. _He's much funnier, though. Better for teasing than Faleron._ _Have you decided what you're going to say when he comes back?_

_When, not if?_ Francesca sighed, looking down, the moment of light-heartedness disappearing in a heartbeat. _If he comes back, yes, I know what I'll say. But if he doesn't—_

_If he doesn't, we're getting the hell out of Dodge_, John replied, his smile replaced by a hard frown. _Portkey to Heathrow, then we're taking off for New York._

Francesca shut her eyes. "Yeah," she murmured. "Or France. Most of Blake & Associates is already in France, so I think Christie will go there if we lose England. At least for awhile. Most of the people who work at Blake & Associates are British though, so long-term Christie will probably set up in Ireland or Scotland. Wait!"

"Wait?"

But Francesca wasn't looking at him anymore, nor listening. She was focused on the wards—there was movement at the wards, and her heart was leaping. Either this was the enemy, and Francesca had to get ready to make everyone evacuate since she didn't have any clue how to do a ward battle, or it was Aldon and the rest of the army. Her hands went flat on the desk, and she shut her eyes again and looked through senses that were not her own.

For a second, she couldn't see anything, just Aldon's careful lines of warding around Rosier Place and their grounds. But then she felt the touch of his mind against hers as he stepped across the threshold. It was Aldon—Aldon who looked completely unlike himself in jeans and a leather jacket, a rifle slung across his shoulders. But he stood proud, and his smile reflected both victory and exhaustion.

"They're back." Francesca felt her face breaking into a smile, the brightest smile she thought she had in her. "Aldon is back."

XXX

Aldon was a new man. It was a new world, and he was a new man who had a million plans. It was as if the whole future had unfurled before him, a wide-open expanse of opportunity, a place where he could make his wildest dreams come true. And what he wanted, most of all and at this moment, was sitting in his study and waiting for him, his ring in her hands.

He had said that she didn't have to give him an answer. He had _said_ that, but truth be told, he wanted an answer. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had a hierarchy of answers he wanted from her.

The top of that list was "Yes." Enthusiasm would have been nice, but he would also accept shy blushing and general fluster. There was plenty of money in the vault, and Francesca could have the wedding of her dreams. He couldn't imagine that she hadn't made a thousand plans for her own wedding, and he could make them come true. It would be the event of the season, a bright point to counterbalance the darkness of the past year.

The second of that list was "Not now." That was not an ideal answer, but it was an answer he could accept. It was why he had phrased his question in the exact manner than he had chosen to do so. He had wanted to give Francesca options aside from yes or no, because _not now_ was not _no_, and he wanted to make sure she had answers other than _no_.

"No" was, of course, the worst possible answer. Aldon would go to very far lengths to avoid hearing the word "no." Indeed, Aldon was fairly certain that he had just planned and fought a war largely to avoid hearing the word "No." That's certainly what Lina would have said, were she not still rounding up enemy combatants for processing at Malfoy Manor.

His study was a welcome place, and Francesca launched herself at him the moment he walked in with a happy cry. He caught her, staggering slightly under her weight, and he could feel her tears as she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Happy tears, he guessed, and he embraced her tightly in response. She smelled like strawberries and cream and, heedless of any audience, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.

John cleared his throat pointedly, standing up from Aldon's desk chair. "Brother in the room, remember? Go any farther in front of me, I might need to throw down with you."

"I've proposed." Aldon didn't look at John. "Twice, even. The second one is an open offer. I think that secures her honour."

He heard John snort, but he had eyes only for Francesca, who had pulled away from him. She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.

"I'm so, so glad that you came home," she said, beaming even though her tears. "So glad."

"And?" Aldon waited, a daring half-smile on his face. "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

She grinned, a little impish, and took a step back. His ring box appeared in her right hand, and she held it out to him. "Ask me again when I have a driver's license. And a four-year college degree. And when the first publicly available ACD is on the market."

Aldon's jaw dropped, but she was already leaving the room.

"_Time to see who else made it back._" John smirked, walking over to pat him on the shoulder. "That's what she was thinking, there. She's going to ruin you, you know."

Aldon sighed, shook his head, and put the ring away in his pocket. _Not now_ was not the ideal answer, but at least it wasn't _No_. "Strangely, I look forward to it."

XXX

Hannah hummed, skipping out of the Portkey Hub at Queenscove. She had so much to tell Blaise—Blaise had been chomping at the bit to be involved in at Malfoy Manor, but considering he was still on four Potions daily to heal the complex spell-effects from their last mission, he had been barred from combat. Hannah hadn't been there either, but she had promised to bring him news, and she had swung through about half of the other safehouses this morning and Malfoy Manor convincing people to give it to her. Stormwing Avery had chased her off the field almost as soon as she had arrived, but not before she had caught Ron Weasley, looking battered and bloody but still satisfied, to give her the word.

The Queenscove Healing Wards were a zoo, and Hannah could feel herself becoming more sombre even as she walked in. The injured were coming in groups of twos and threes; the infirmary as more crowded than Hannah had ever seen it before.

Across the ward, Neal spotted her and smiled a hello before turning back to his patient, and Hannah was glad to see that he, too, had made it back. She didn't know him well, but since Blaise had been at Queenscove, she had been there nearly every day to see him. Neal was friendly, always taking the time to check in with her when she came, even if she knew her way from the Portkey Hub to the Healing Wards by now.

Blaise was in a corner of the room, staring avidly at the people who were being brought in. Through their soulmate connection, Hannah could feel his own desperate anxiety and worry for his friends. She took a seat beside him, taking one of his hands in hers. "D-don't focus too hard on the people here," she said, with a small smile. "Other injured people are also going to Potter Place and the Healer's Guild in Diagon Alley, and a lot of people are being treated right at Malfoy Manor."

"So?" Blaise turned to her, his sharp words and affect blunted only by the gentle expression in his eyes as he looked at her. "How is it? How is… everyone?"

Hannah sighed. "Bad news first, or better news?"

Blaise grimaced. "Bad."

"Your mother's dead." Hannah paused. "Ron Weasley was part of the Stormwing group clearing out the remains of Malfoy Manor. They found her body. I'm sorry."

Blaise sighed deeply, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I didn't expect anything different, to be honest. She hadn't been well in a very long time. Inside the Manor, you said?"

"Yes." Hannah squeezed his hand. "We think—we think someone on the inside killed her, a last act of defiance or something, but we don't know. It could be anything. The shifter alliance can help you arrange the funeral if you'd like."

"No." Blaise shook his head. "I mean—I shouldn't. I can handle it."

"You can hardly leave your bed," Hannah pointed out with a small smile. "Accept help when you need it, Blaise."

Blaise winced, but he left the topic alone. Hannah could understand—Blaise's mother had somehow been a part of the reason why Blaise had been raised outside the shifter alliance, so he didn't think it was appropriate to ask for help. But shifters didn't hold grudges, especially against the dead, and Blaise would learn that later. "Do you want the b-better news, now?"

"Please." Blaise smiled, squeezing her hand back.

"There were fewer casualties than expected—a lot fewer." Hannah grinned, though it was tinged with a bit of sadness. There could be no war without casualties, and even if Hannah was happy about their victory and the world they would make, there were still losses. "The Shifter Alliance lost another two—Kenneth Grayson and Deborah Harkness—b-but everyone else survived. The dhampir unit are still sweeping for vampires, but Alex mentioned that he thinks that with Voldemort gone and whatever agreement they had finished, any remaining covens will flee within the next two weeks. Harry is fine. Shell-shocked, but she's fine, she headed right into the Alleys to see her friend Leo and to check on the Lower Alleys. Your friend Pansy is fine—oh, she was a spy for most of the war, did you know?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow, smirking. "If she was a spy, of course not."

"Not even any suspicions?" Hannah grinned, teasing.

"Well." Blaise shook his head wryly. "I can't say I didn't have my guesses. It wasn't in her character to do most of the things they said she did in the first place, so it doesn't surprise me at all. What about—"

He hesitated, looking way again, his dark eyes growing sad.

"A-about?"

"Millicent and Theo." Blaise didn't look at her. "I know—Well, Millie was probably a spy, but I know that Theo was on the other side. I'd like to know what happened to them. And anyone else we went to Hogwarts with, too."

Hannah nodded. She had expected these questions and had gone out of her way to find answers for them. Millie had been the harder of the two—she was with the foreign delegation and had been since last summer, and it had taken rather a lot of pressing for Aldon to tell her what he knew. "Your friend Millie is fine. S-she's been passing information from the foreign delegation to Aldon all year—most of the delegation is at best neutral anyway, Aldon expects they'll quickly come into the service of the new government, whatever that looks like. But T-Theo…"

"Theo?"

"Theo was on the battleground at Malfoy Manor." Hannah sighed, looking down at their linked hands. "He survived, but he's being held with rest of Voldemort's supporters while they decide what to do with them. No word on that yet."

Blaise nodded slowly, a sad look coming into his eyes. "At least he survived. He can learn to adapt to a new world—I think. Is that everyone?"

"I—I hope so," Hannah replied, her smile faltering a little. "Susan, Ernie, Neville and most of the Hogwarts students in our year survived too, at least as far as I know. I don't know for sure, I lost track of a lot of people. I guess—we can always see who returns when we go back to Hogwarts."

"When we go back to Hogwarts," Blaise echoed, a small smile tilting his lips. "Do you think you will? A Hogwarts that's open for everyone, of all blood statuses, for people from three separate countries?"

"Yes." Hannah grinned. "In fact, I—I'm looking forward to it. It'll be d-different, and it'll be hard at first, especially with the first few years of Muggleborn and Irish students, but I think it'll be good. I'm looking forward to meeting the students who wouldn't have been able to come to Hogwarts before, and some of the upper-years will need to be there to help smooth their way. I—I can help with that."

Blaise squeezed her hand. "Then I'll be there, too. With you."

XXX

Rebuilding was hard.

Archie pushed away his pile of notes for the day, his eyes blurry with his own scribble. It wasn't just rebuilding places, though that was hard enough; the state treasury was effectively empty, and even with people slowly starting to return from abroad, current estimates were that the population of the former Wizarding Britain had decreased by nearly a third. Most of them, fortunately, hadn't died—more than half of those gone were the populations of the newly independent Wizarding Ireland and Scotland, and there were a large number of refugees too that hadn't yet returned. In terms of deaths alone, current estimates were for around six thousand dead, mostly in the massacres in the Lower Alleys and Wales.

Money from abroad and especially from the BIA was key for rebuilding. Hermione had been instrumental in negotiating the agreement to fund the rebuilding program, which had been tied to the passage of a re-naturalization program guaranteeing citizenship in Wizarding England for any newblood or halfblood born in Britain who had been pushed abroad under the Muggleborn and halfblood exclusion laws. The primary difficulty of the agreement hadn't been the substance of it, which had seemed natural to everyone involved, but had more to do with the fact no one knew who had the authority to agree to the plan at all. Eventually, Uncle James had just called it all ridiculous and agreed to it in the exigencies of the aftermath of the war and said that the Wizengamot could call him to task about it later.

Archie was drowning in daily arguments about the structure of the new Wizengamot. One third of the seats were meant for the nobility, but there was still an open question about what that meant. Did it mean that the nobles formed their own class, able to elect their representatives among themselves, or did it mean that all nobles were entitled to a seat in the Wizengamot by right of inheritance? Most noble Lords preferred the latter and, considering a complete accounting of all extant noble houses in Wizarding Britain came to under two hundred seats, the latter was even possible.

But under that approach, what happened if, like Queenscove, an heir appeared out of nowhere and raised one of the defunct houses? Did they automatically have a seat, or were they fixing the seats here and now, never to change? Or, if they did have a seat, would two more seats then have to be added to the non-noble representatives to fulfill the agreement?

And what their other promises? What about the Alleys, which was represented by the non-noble Rogue, but which was magically a noble house or something very like it? What about the shifters, who had been promised greater representation in the new government—were they to be granted hereditary or guaranteed seats as well? For the non-noble seats, how would electoral regions be drawn? How would elections be arranged?

Then there were their own personal griefs. Six weeks later, and Archie was still wrapping his head around the list of the dead. Uncle Remus was gone, buried at Potter Place—he, Dad, and the rest of their extended family were still mourning the loss. Derrick Holden, one of Archie's friends from AIM, had died; Marcus had taken his first and only loss in the war, with Roger Davies killed in action as he threw a bomb through a window of Malfoy Manor. Lady Augusta Longbottom was dead, along with her son Frank Longbottom, and the young Lord Neville Longbottom was now negotiating on behalf of their House. The Weasleys themselves had escaped further tragedy, but Percy had lost his closest friend, Audrey Smith, in the last battle. Percy still froze, an empty look on his face every now and then when he paged through his notes at the negotiation table when something had reminded him of her. Penelope always covered for him when it happened.

Harry was already planning a monument for the dead, to be put in the rebuilt Alleys, and the Lady Ross had said that a similar monument would be raised at Hogwarts. A third would be put in Wales, on the peak of Snowdonia, particularly honouring the Welsh dead. The Irish had committed to assisting in cultural renaissance efforts, and in spirit they would be putting the Welsh agreement into effect. The Welsh and the Irish were not the same, but Saoirse had said that they had enough in common that the Irish renaissance efforts would likely be of help.

There was so much to do. Every day was packed, with few days off, and he was more tired than he had ever been in his entire life. And that included the war.

A knock came at his door, and Archie turned in his chair to see Hermione standing in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers in her hands.

"Hermione. What's up?" Archie grinned, pushing his notes for the day away. "What have you got there?"

"Forms for AIM," Hermione said, holding them up. "I didn't—"

She cut herself off with a sigh, walking in and handing him the papers. Curious, Archie looked them over. There was a form for deferring another year, another form for an outright withdrawal, and the third form was an application for independent study. Archie paged through them all, his heart slowly sinking.

AIM would start again in two weeks, but there was no way that he could go back now. He was too deeply tied to the negotiations, and they wouldn't be done in two weeks. They might not even be done in a month, or two months, or six months. The minute one problem ended, another one began, and for some reason half of the people involved didn't seem to be able to talk to each other unless he was there to calm everyone down and remind them that they had more in common than they didn't. He had already missed a year of schooling, and another year was—

Well, he had a few credits from last year. If he gave up on his specialization in infectious disease, he could probably finish a qualification in general Healing in a year and a half, though the classes he needed for infectious disease would take him the full two years. But he couldn't leave now, and he probably couldn't even leave half a year from now, and he didn't know when he could go back. He was needed here, in England.

"Hermione…" he said, looking up. She had to be in the same boat—the BIA needed a liaison in England, and she was the one that both sides trusted. Her history with the BIA was unquestionable, straight from her first year at AIM, but based on her experience in the war, the old nobility still listened to her. Most of the BIA were British newbloods and halfbloods who lived internationally, and the many of the old nobility was still inclined to dismiss them entirely for living abroad, though they could not help the reasons for their emigration. "What are you doing next year? For AIM?"

Hermione looked away. "I've put in an application for an independent study plan," she said softly. "I'm dropping my specialization. We have enough credits for a general Healing certificate with the two Emergency Healing credits we got last year—I expect if we make an argument, we can get a couple more for Spell Damage or Curses and Countercurses or something for last year. Then it's just general studies, and we can do that by agreeing to an independent study schedule by correspondence."

Archie nodded slowly, thinking it over. It wasn't ideal—it was not what he wanted, because he had always wanted to be a Healer, and he had wanted to be a Healer as fast as possible. That was why he and Harry had taken the risk of the ruse, why he had gone to AIM in the first place. The irony that it had ultimately led to a world where he was not a Healer, and where it would take him much longer to become a Healer didn't escape him.

But it would be a better world. It would be so much work, and so many people had died, but it would be a better world. He could spend the time later for his specialisation in infectious disease when things had settled down. He was needed here, and for now, that was more important than Healing.

"I'll do the same," he said, pulling the application for independent study to the top of the pile. There were huge boxes for written explanations, and Archie felt himself deflating at the thought of the essays that awaited him. But it would be for the best, and he set the papers down on his desk. "Nothing for it. I don't know when I'll be able to go back."

Hermione smiled. "I don't think we'll be able to go back," she replied, a little sadly. "Not if we want to see this through properly. The war was the easy part, Archie—this is where the hard work, the work of creating a stable society where everyone can live freely and without fear, begins."

Archie sighed. "I suppose our own plans are a small price to pay," he murmured, with a small smile of resignation. "If we do this right, 'Mione, it'll be worth it. It will absolutely be worth it."

XXX

_ANs: And there we have it! The entirety of rev arc, done! For this one, I have a slightly longer list of people to thank: meek_bookworm, of course, for betaing pretty much everything over the past three years (which when you consider it is actually a ridiculous task), various subject matter experts (REW, JAP, SHL) especially for the legal sections, Tolya for the Russian swearing, mercuryandglass for breaking down the grammar of how house-elves speak, Tamarisk for chats on R2P, what military scales look like today, and how a military functions, and FeatheryMinx, graveExcitement, beelzebubble_tea, liryian, fin and so many others for fanarts, comments, and endless encouragement._

_By way of inspirations, I'd specifically like to call out the homegrown resistance movements fighting fascism and authoritarianism around the world: from the citizen journalists of RBSS who risked their lives to sneak footage out of the ISIS-controlled city of Raqqa during its occupation (most of them are either dead or refugees now), to Rappler Media in the Philippines continuing to call out the excesses of Duterte's government despite ongoing threat of state-sponsored violence, to the thousands of people who dedicate their lives to fighting the good fight, whether it's in state-sanctioned avenues like the courts or otherwise. "Do you remember when you wanted to set the world on fire? Because I still do."_

_What comes next? Well, rev arc as a whole closes here-anything else likely to come out will be part of Flashes (if you're on ffnet) or the Rev Arc Plus Extras series (if you're on AO3). Anything else that comes out will likely be a one-shot, extremely self-indulgent, and probably the result of a specific request by someone. Do I have ideas for where my characters go from here? Of course I do, but I probably won't write most of them out unless specifically asked for them. That said, if there's a specific character you want to see more of or a prompt you want to leave, drop it and I'll certainly consider it! Otherwise, I have other ideas floating around, and will probably move on. Thanks for reading! _


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